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-■'•:/ -tyMMall ySmi-Heti"^ 



Poetry and Song 


€)^om ^clcrtions frnm t^t gcsl gotts, 




tCHitl) an iSntrotJuctorj Crcatior bj tftt ESitor 




JnlrejEcs, Jfllustrotions, anb 'ia.ntograpljic i^ac-similcs. 

NOV /^I886 
NEW YORK: /^ ' 










In 1870 AND 1877, By J. B. Ford and Company. 

In 1880 AND i886, By Fords, Howard, and Hulsert. 






rriJIE marked success of "A Library of Poetry and Song," as first issued in 
-L the year 187U, showed that the work supplied a real need of the public, 
whose confidence in Mr. Bryant, as its editor, has been borne out by the worlc 

•Shortly before his death, observing with gratification tlie great jjopularity 
attained by his book and the growing demand for it, Mr. Bryant desired to 
thoroughly revise the work and make it still more worthy of the public esteem 
and his own fame. And, although its popular acceptability seemed no whit 
diuiiuished in its original form, tlie publishers thought it wortliy of a thorougli 
revision, enlargement, and improvement. Accordingly, witli Mr. Bryant's active 
co-(jperation, the work was subjected to an entire reconstruction, both as to 
matter and form; the laljor having been finished just before Mr. Bryant's 
death in 1878, and being, as has been stated, the latest of his completed 
literary tasks. About one fifth of the material of the former volume was 
eliminated, and twice as much new matter added; great pains having been 
taken to insure the correctness of the text, witli a view to making it a standard 
for reference, as well as to give an ample provision for general or special 

Tlie name "Library," which has been given it, indicates the principle 
upKii which the book has been made, namely: that it might serve as a book 
of reference ; as a comprehensive exhibit of the history, growth, and condition 
of poetical literature ; and, more especially, as a companion, at the will of its 
possessor, for the varying moods of the mind. 

Necessarily limited in extent, it yet contains one quarter more matter 
than any similar publication, presenting nearly two thousand selections, from 
more than five hundred autliors ; and it may be claimed that of the poetical 
writers whose works have caused their names to be held in general esteem or 
affection, none are unrepresented ; while scores of the productions of unknown 
authors, verses of merit though not of fame, found in old books or caught out 
of the passing current of literature, have been here presented side by side 
with those more notable. And the chief object of the collection — to present 
m f"'l r-h 


an array of good poetry so widely representative and so varied in its tone as 
to offer an answering chord to every mood and phase of human feeling — has 
been carefully kept iu view, both in the selection and the arrangement of its 
contents. So that, in all senses, the realization of its significant title has been 
an objective point. 

In inirsuauce of this plan, the highest standard of literary criticism has 
not been made the only test of worth for selection, since many poems have 
been included, which, though less perfect than others in form, have, by some 
power of touching the heart, gained and maintained a sure place iu the 
poi)ular esteem. 

The enlargement and reconstruction of this work entailed upon Mr. Bryant 
much labor, in conscientious and thorough revision of all the material, — 
cancelling, inserting, suggesting, even copying out with his own hand many 
poems not readily attainable except from his private library, — in short, giving 
the work not only the sanction of his widely honored name, but also the 
genuine influence of his fine poetic sense, his unquestioned taste, his broad 
and scholarly acquaintance with literature. To assist him, especially in the 
principal gathering and classification of the material, the Publishers, with his 
concurrence, obtained the services of Mr. Edward H. Knight, of Washington, 
I). C, of whose good taste, wide reading, and peculiar talent for systematiza- 
tion they had availed themselves in the first preparation of the original work. 
This edition also had the advantage of the critical discrimination of Professor 
Eobert E. Eaymoud, of Brooklyn, N. Y., who made it his care to revise all 
the copy before sending it to the printers, to correct erroneous readings per- 
petuated from careless editions of various authors, and to add the numberless 
touches of the literary artist. 

The Publishers desire to return their thanks for the courtesy freely 
extended to them, by which many copyrighted Americau poems have been 
allowed to ajipear in this collection. In regard to a large number of them, 
permission has been accorded by the authors themselves; other poems having 
been gathered as waifs and strays, have been necessarily used without special 
authority, and where due credit is not given, or where the authorship may have 
been erroueously ascribed, future editions will afford opportunity for the correc- 
tion, which will be gladly made. Particular acknowledgments are offered to 
Messrs. D. Appleton & Co. for extracts from the works of Fitz-Greene Halleck, 
and from the poems of William Cullen Bryant ; to Messrs. Harper and Brotliers 
for poems of Charles G. Halpine and Will Carleton ; to Messrs. J. B. Lippin- 
cott & Co. for quotations from the writings of T. Buchanan Bead ; to Messrs. 
Charles Scribner's Sons for extracts from Dr. J. G. Holland's poems; and more 
especially to the house of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., — whose good taste 
and intelligent enterprise have given them an unequalled list of American 

fl ^ a 


poeticiil writers, comprising many of the most eminent poets of the land, — 
for tlieir courtesy in the liberal extracts granted from the writings of Thomas 
Bailey Aldricli, lialph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Henry Wad.s- 
worth Longfellow, James liussell Lowell, Florence Percy, John Godfrey Saxe, 
Harriet Beecher Stowe, Edmund Clarence Stedmau, Bayard Taylor, Bret Harte, 
John Townsend Trowbridge, Mrs. Celia Thaxter, John Greenleaf Whittier, and 

In addition to the above acknowledgments, readers will see in the " Index 
of Authors" references enabling tlieni to find the publi.shers of the entire 
works of any American writer to whom theii" attention has Iteen called by 
any fragment or poem printed in this volume. This "Library" contains 
specimens of many styles, and it is believed that, so far from preventing the 
purchase of special authors, it serves to draw attention to their merits ; and 
tlie courtesy of their publishers in granting the use of some of their poems, 
here will tind ample and practical recognition. 

U^ ^ 

[fi- ^ 








THE POET (Fat-siniilu of Mr. Bryant's Manuscript) 3 

INTRODUCTION : Pdeth and Poetky ok the Englihii Language .... 7 














[g . ^ 


viii TABLE OF coy TENTS. 















PoiiTBAiT OF William Cullen Buvant 

. Frontispiece, 


William Wordsworth 

William Cullen Bryant (tlu-ee-pac:^ MS. 

Edmund Clarknce Steuman 

John Kkat.s 

Edgar Allan Poe .... 
John Howard Payne .... 
"H. H." — Helen Hunt Jackson . 

Thomas Hood 

A\'n,i,iAM GiLMORE Simms . 
Lku^u Hunt .... 
JosiAH Gilbert Holland . 
Alfred Tennyson . 
Walt Whitman . 
Gkorge H. Boker . 
Nathaniel Parker Willis 
John Greenleap Wiiittier . 
Oliver Wendell Holmes . 
Fitz-Greene Halleck . 
Bayard Taylor . 
George Perkins Morris 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 
John Quincy Adams 
Jean Ingelow . 

George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron 
Hunry Wadswortii Longfellow 
Uam'h Waldo Emerson 




front par/e xli 




[0 -^ 


Thomas Gkay 813 


Ltdia Huntley Sigouuney 8L'5 

JouN G. Saxe 858 

RiciiABD Heney Stoddakd 853 

James Russell Lowell 853 


Bryant in uis Library, at Cedarmkke xli 

Longfellow in jus Study 21 

TiiK Old Arm-Cuair 10 

IlKIGIl-Ilo! 70 

Tell me how to Woo Tiiek . . 8(i 

Summer Days 107 

The First Kiss 13-I' 


Wiiittiee's Home in Amesbury 2G3 

After a Summer Shower 392 

Longfellow's Home, in Cambridge 495 

Bridge and Battle-Ground, at Concord 533 

Lowell's Home, in Cambridge OS-t 

Emerson's Home, in Concord 721 

The Bower of Bliss 752 

Stratford-upon-Avon S13 

^2- [? 




NaTfies of A 

Publisfurs of the poetical works of A 
Authors' tu 

lur iters may be found in cottnection with t/te 


tjiiincy, St.iss.. ij<j-!-t.-'..x>'.. 

The Wants of M.m 668 


Ennliml, 1805-1848. 

" Nearer, my God, to thee " . . 337 

" The mourners came at break of day " . 261 

Hn^-t.incl, 1672-1719. 

Cato's Soliloquy 734 

Scmpronius's Speech for War . . 511 

'* The spacious firmament on high " . . 33S 

IiiiKl..iil, i;-.-i77'). 

Delif^hts of Fancy 748 

Virtuoso, The 859 


" NothinR but leaves" 333 

AKERS, MRS. ^lAZX-R-ETH (Florence Percy). 

b,-i- ALLliN, ELlZAIlUni AKIiKS. 


IliMlli-Ile.l, A 




"lS.!re''.,ii(l aficr llic'Rain . . . .638 

li,l.,Kli" Head of Minerva, On an . . 708 
" When the Sultan goes to Ispahan " . . 150 
Ii,l,;,.l,. r .; Iloutlit^n, Mftllin & Co., Uoilon. 

'"Buriarof'Moses"' 344 


Poor Fisher Folk (Frcmi the French : yictor 

Hugo) 577 


Frcoli.wn. M.iss.. 1.. I«Ji. 

Parting Lovers, The {.From llu Chinese) . i86 
"To Heaven approached a Sufi Saint" {From 
the Persian : Dscliellaleddin Rumt) . . 327 
rulilishcrs : Kolterts Brothers, Boston. 

lll.t'l'll'l. 1'- 161I1 I NJllurV. 

" There is a Rarden in her face" ... 64 

Left Hehind 207 

My Ship 23,S 

Rock mc to Sleep 73 

The Bobolink 440 

i', : llr.ii^.|iion, Mifflin & Co., Boston. 


H.illv ,1' iMi'.r), Ircl.uid, li. i8:iJJ. Lives In London, Eng. 

Fairies, The 763 

Lovely Mary Donnelly .... 155 
Touchstone, The 742 


(..jori;ttf,wn, S. C. 1779-1843. 

America to Great Britain 532 

Koyhood 37 

Rosalie 237 


Gcnii.iiiy, 1185-1640. 

Battle-Song of Guslavus Adolphus, The (Tr.) 468 



(.I.:...-, .t 4;6n. C. 

( ira^shopper, The i.CoT.vley's Translation) 
.Spring {^tf(?r*'f Translation) . 

I>ciiiii.irk, 1«05-I87S. 

The Little Match-Girl [From tlit Danish) 

lltrkclcy. Mass.. d. i8». 

Perseverance . 


Ilaly, 1474-1S6J. 

•'If it be true that any beauteous thing" l.y.E 
Taylor^s Trafulation) ..... 
"The might of one fair face " {Taylor's Trans. 

lini;l.iTii].l. i8,i 

Almond Blossoms 

The Secret of Death 



Jolly ()ld Pedagogue . . . . 


I'ul.lisfiuis: llouBlilori, MilUn & Co., Boston. 

Ecirf.ui(l, I). 1823. 


Dover Beach 

) 69 


I Me 

, The 


Philomela .... 
Terrace at Berne, The 

lin^;l.ind. i^ao-1546. 

The Fight of Faith . 

ILiifil.iiKl, I7g3-i8'>7 

The Passage {Front the Germ 

The Birch Stream 

Scllaiid. i57.^i(,,'!. 

On Love 

W(,man's Inconstancy .... 

™l!'u'i'ied Flower, The 

Execution of Montrose, The 

Heart of the Bruce, The 


Epigaja Asleep 


.Stntlaiifi, lyfc'-iSsr. 

McathCock, The 

"U])! Quit thy bower " .... 

i;r,i;l.""l. .7.n-■R^S- 
"I.lfel I know not what thou art" 
S,ild)ath of the Soul, The . 
Summer Evening's Meditation, A . 
gotdsby^ Esq.). 
Ent.'l.iTi<l. I7WH-I845. 

City Bells 





Deatli of a P.iu^litcr, On the 

ckdaw of Kl 


Misadventures al Margate . 

Auid Robin Gray 

lillKlaiul, i^J4-iMI.. 

Address lo the Nightingale 
DARTON, BERNARD. 173.1-1H49 

Bruce and the Spider 
Caractacus . . . . 
" Not ours the vows" 
Sc.i, The . , . . 

Ouuicverc to Lancelot 

UllljliilKl. .,-.j;-iSf,, 

The ftlistletoo Bough 
Hermit, Yhc 

Morning 3(><; 


liii|jkiiiJ, 1580-1610 !uul is;(^iOas. 

Disguised Maiden, The 6SS 

Folding the Flocks 431 

" Hence, all yc vain delights" , . . 3.^5 

Invocation to Sleep 677 



I Wilt ca 

case thine heart*' 


GosliL-ii, N.V,. i.ij ,-ia;i 

The Picket-Guard ... 
rublishers; I'ortur A; contcs, Thiladclphia. 


lirconwiili. iMi);., li. i&jo. Lives In London. 

Babv May 

Baby's Shoes 

Invocation to Rain in Sununcr 

Worn Wcdding-Ring, The .... 

AiiLMii.,, N. v., I.. 18J4. 

■Ihe Mowers 

linKl.m,l, 16S4-.75,. 

Westward Ho 1 

N.-1V Votk. iajs-J.%a. 

Hvnin to Night .... 


linfl.liul. .7.,7-lfc7. 

Garden of Love, The 
Sunflower. The . 
Tiger, The 

Um-I,iii<l. ia.!-,94<. 

The Mother's Hope 

Home (/•>."« llltGrtck) 


Farmer's Hoy, The . 
Lambs al Play . 
Moonlit;ht in Sntnmcr 
Soldier's Return, The . 


Black Reoimcm, The 

Dirge for a Soldier . 

Prince .\dcb 

Fublishcrs ! J. li. Lljiiiincotl & Co., PhlLrdclphll 


Su«i.ort, Ky..l.. ii,.«. 

Lett on the Battle-Field . . . . 

.■>c..lL,li,l, li. iSoS 

" Beyond the smiling and the weeping '' 

How Long ? 


U„Kl.o„l. Now living. 


BOURNE, VINCENT. I6y5-i;47. 

'■ Busy, curious, thirsty fly" ., 1 VKiHlNE ANNE. 

'I . ■ '1 I'll,. Mks. Cakcu-ink Bowles. 
Hiiw I 1 , w 1 1 I lAM LISLE. 

" tniiic 111 thc-^c scenes of peace " . 


l.iiKl.m.l. .;9.-H!?.'. , , , .... 

" From the recesses of a lowly spirit 
God (From tht Rmsiait of Drrzlinvm) . 
Nightingale, The (From the rorliieiuse) 
Nightingale, The {From tht Dutch) . 
Not Ripe for Political Power .... 

New Colin., 179(1-1838. 

Deep, The 

" I saw two clouds at moming" . 

Niagara, The Fall of 


■Ihc P. 

rifled Fi 


Ireliiml. li. iB.-y ; il. ill New Orlcllis, 1857. 

" Come to me, dearest" 204 


hllKl.iiiil. 155S-16114- 

Passage in the Life of St. Augustine, A . . j2s 

Piiillida and Corydon 44 

Phillis the Fair 09 


Sec John Dir.tiv, Earl of Bristol. 


I tie Gtr 



Alpine Heights f/^f. 


Fisher, The [From tht GermaH 0/ Got I he) 
Good Night [Frotii the German 0/ Kilmer) . , . 
Men and Boys(»(;w* the German t^f Kdmrr] 527 
Nobleman and the Pensioner, The (From the 

Geriiiati 0/ l^^e/Ytt) ..... 476 

XT ,.. ^»f_._l. I •!'„ /..*.■■ \ 


Sword Song, The (From the Gtrmt 


Winter Song (From th* Gemtan) 
I'liWislmn i lloiii;litoii. Millliii & Co.. Boston. 

BROOKS, MARIA GOW EN (Maria del Occidtnte). 



. Mas 


citing purple dying" . 



iMlgl.OKl. 1815-1874- 

The Philosopher and his D,lughter 


\r|.'l.l'iii Xi-llv 

BKn« N. 1 1; \\i I'S. 

" 11 Iho pleasant d.iys of old! " 


i;ii,:l,iiiil. i-.9ii-"i4< 

" Shall 1 tell vou whom I love " . 
Siren's Song, The ... 
" Welcome, welcome, do I sing" 

I'rovi.loiioo, U, I., I.s..4-i87a. 

Burial of the D.ane ... 
Lawyer's Invocation to Spring, The 
" Let us alone " . . . . 

PiiWisliiTs ; Houghton, Mifflin & Co.. Boston. 






A •- tr„„\ 

iirl A 


„„..,. S.„„l, S-„w,c 
.\y\ VcB, TIlO 

rrl Wallcr'i Wifo 
(llirr and I'ocl 
■ •ticiil IiiBlrnnicnti 
rliiiK l.ovcri,. 


SIrcp . . 

Sritinclii from tlio Portugticso 
VInw acrons the Koman CamiKigna, A 
Wordsworlli, On a Portrait of 

Iliii;h.ii.I. I.. iBi!., 

livelyn Mope 

MowcrV Name, The . 

Mcrvd Kiel 

How tliey IjrouKlit ttioOood N 

. Ai> 


Itir.idcnt of the French Camp 


I'ic'J Piper of Mamelin, The 
'I'lic Kinif h cold 
" 'I'ho \I.,lh's kiBn, flr«t ! " . 

Clliiiiiiliii;l'.ii, M-i'/.;.. n. 1^^//. 
I.iltle Cloud. The . 
Valley Brook, 'Iho 



tuiii".ili>!t'.ll, MliM.. .79»-lKj8. 

Panic- Kieltl, The . 

" Bloftcd arc they that mourn*' 

Di-alh of the Floworn, 'I'ho 

KvtninK Wind, The . 

Palima and Kadiian . 

Flood of Viars, The , 

T'orc^tt Hymn, A 

,' Anli(|nity of 
ian, To the 

FrinKcd fl 
Future Lii 

Love of flod. The (Fram llu Pmtnfal) 

mosMinlo, lo a 

My Anlunio Walk 

Oh, Fairest of rhc Rural Maids 

PlaoiiuK of the Apple-Trce, The . 

ow-Sl.owcr,The . 
n|{ of Marion's Men 
ir of l!clhl..hcm, 'llic 

To .T Waterfowl 

1 & Co.. New Y',tk 


Little Milliner, The . 
Wakeof Titn O'flara . 

AlN.fl. i.. 

A Prayer for Life 
liUKLI'.lfill, WILLIAM H. 

''l')cl)orali'i','c'e '"''.''''■ . 

Br.oll,nirl, ,,-., ,,,/,. 

" Ac fond kiRR before wc part " 

Afion Water 

Auld Lang Sync 

PankBo'Doon.Tho . 

P.annockhurn .... 

Ilard'n Kpit.aph, A 

Ponnio Wee Ihinff . 

" (-'a' the yowcts to the knowca" 

Comin' through the Rye . 


(.'otler'n Saturday Nluht, Tho 
DavlcSillar, To . . 

" Duncan Gray cam' hero lo w( 
FJc((y on Captain Hendcrnon . 
" For a' Ihat and a' that " . 
) rashes, ^> I " 

IliKhland Mary 
'•/..ho Ande 

.myjo" . 

li-ycorn . . . 

woman o'or complain " 

Mary Mori«on 
Mountain Daisy, To a 

< ye h. 




n O'Shanler .... 
he day returns, my Ijostim burns' 
"There's nae luck ahout the house" 
Toolliachc. Address to the 
To the Unco Guid . 
" Whisllo antl I '11 come lo you, my lad 
i;.,Ki,....i, ,&,,,v„, 

Hildlhras' Sword and DatHfor . , 
1 1 udibras, I'he LokIc of . . . 
Hndiliras, The Philosophy of . 
Hiidibras, The Rclixion of . 

ll..iMV, N 

" NotliiiiK lo wear " , 

iil.l|..lir,« : ir.iu/liloii, Miraili /V Co., llo«n 


i^ohMMim hy r 
Coliseum, 'fhi 
iJanlcl lioruie . 
iJealh (•//// G(V<«»-) . 
Dream, Ihc . 
KvcnitiK iOon yuan) . 
F'ilial \Atsz 
First Love . 
(Jrcco- ( The Giaour') 
fJrecco Whildn l/aroM) 
Greek Poel, Son^ of tho 
' akc L< 

I my native shore " . 
[.mnliKht' . ■ . ■ . 

Latest Vrrws .... 
" .Maid of Alliens, ere wc pari " . 
Man -Woman 
Mazeppa's Ride .... 


Napoleon {Chl/(h llarM). 
Napfileon, Ode to 


Orient, The .... 
" O, snatched away in beauty's bloi 
Outward Pound 
Princess Charlotte, Tho 
Rhine, 'Ih'. .... 
Rwer, Soiijtof Ihc 

.Sea Grot 

.Sea, Realm of the .... 

Sea, The 

" she walks in beauty" 
Skull, The .... 

Klorm at NiKliI on Lake Lcman . 



I'he k 

dear maid ' 


,NowlMiry|i<,rl. .Mncs., Ii. I'.d,^ 

In Slimmer Time 

R<«c Hush, 'llie U'rom llu- GrrmuH) 


Imli.n. itl (.csl.iry 1!. (;. 

Raby, The ( Tramlalion i>/Slr William '/m 
Woman { TransttUiott of IVilsoii) 






li.l.m.l. v.^v iS-<) 

llouii.imu- ll.ui.i 


'' AMii/'riio ''' 

Cock nml llle Uiill. I'hs 


'"I'lilKhiV'n'.ovi (/V.iiw. o/Li>nl Stnuts/i'nl) 
CAMl'lSKl.l., rilOMAS. 


liuuliiiul, 1619-16^ 



uIp 10 WaUlegrave, The 

Kvoiuui;, riie 

Kxile >.l' Krm . 


HohcnliiuU-u . 

Kiis, I'hr Kirsl . 

Lpvhicl'a Wuruinis . 

M, lid's Rcimm»lraii«, The 

M.irli.\l Elegy ( From tht Grttk of Tyrlitm) . 454 

Nanuleuii aiid the liritish Sailor 


Kiver of Life, The 
Soulier's Ore.lni, The 
" Ye Mariners of Enslaml " 

!■ rieiid of Humanity and the KnifcQrindcr . 863 

l-.iH5l,m.i. ful.liNhcl 1N3. 

Kevenge of InjuriM 740 


^' Oive me more love or more disdain " . , ha 

" He (hat loves a rosy cheek "... 75 

" I do not love thee for t.lir " ... 75 

" Sweetly breathing, veriiiU air " . . . s^i 


li.itl.iml, i«.,-i74,i. 

Sally in our Alley 54 


llluo, l>- l.St3. 

The New Church Orean .... f'")^ 

riiWUhi.-.^ I\: lli.-llu-r-.. New York. 



Dying Hymn, A 
b'ire t>v the Sea, The 
Make Believe 
Ottler lor a I'icture, An 
Pictures of Memory 
Spinster's Stint, A . 
Uncle Jo 

Ir.iiuv. I WI-14P5. 

"The fairest thing in mortal eyes' (Tntn 
/(itioH (if /ferny /*. Cary) . 



CHAl I I K U'N. I IK)M.-\; 

Minstrel's Song . 

I.mi Pilgrin 


LllUluiul, 18.*-|N'J. 

The Brave 6ld Oak .... 

liiiKlanil. i;,»-ijfH. 



H-l.lll.l, lOTl-l?'^. 

The Blind tloy "SS 


l.iiKl.ui.l. i:.ji-iSr4. 


mWivhcn. 1 ll.MiKhlon. MWIIn .<t Co., lUv.ton, 

Uiwl.iml, i;;.-iS44. , 

'' The LMrest thing in mortal eyes ( / r. 
CARY. LUCIUS (Loni Fd/UiNti). 

lillKltlinl. rM*.-i64S. 

Ben Joiison's Commonplace Book . 

CARY, piuEBE. 

■ utul, O 
i and 
, The 

Neater Home 


I>iWiOu'is 1 IIoii|;lil,M\. Mliniii ,* C,-.. Uwton, 


"'"Vt kindles all my soul" (From Iht t'olisV) 

^' Nly C.od, I love thee " (From Ikt Latin) . 

l)ies \rx\rmnslitlioH o/yoin .-1. Di.r) 

MatWdu-.l.l. Mi^v, t.. 1S4.V 

The IVo Waitings 

CHALKHII.I, lOHN 0'rob.iWy /..i.<* HW/.".). 
The .Angler 

SiTininc-i . 

ll.uu.v.i, S. 11., I.. 18|,>. 

Cana , _ . 

The Caliph and Satan . 
I'ul.lMicrs 1 lloii^liion. Miltllii S to.. 1 

The Hen('/'m«-.v'.>/i.'>i) . 
CLEl Wli. wn I lAM. 

CLl \ II w 1 '. liUIN. 

To liie .Miiiioiy of Ben Jonson 


UlluLuul, iSi..-iaoi, 

** As ships becalmed" . 

'• With whom is no variableness " 



COFFIN, ROBERT BARRY (il.irrr Gnty). 

IIiuIm.h. N. Y., iSao-iSSO. 

Shiiw at Sea ''i 


liuiJlfliul. i7,JO-l849- 

Sli.akespeare ^i.^ 

".She is not fair to outward view" . . . !*'* 


liiw'l.m.l. i'>-isj<- 

.'\nswer to a Child s Question ... 143 

Cologne ''N 

Epigrams R'*4 

Fancy in Nubibus 7.5o 

Genevieve '07 

Good Great Man, The . . . . ; (>?" 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni 33S 

Knight's Tomb, rhe 4*^ 

Metric.rl Feet ....... 9>9 

Quan-el of Friends, The (C*rislahl) . 
Rime of the Ancient Mariner . 


Stab.\t Mater Dolorosil (From Ikt Lalm) 




jnjjkx of a unions. 



" The winter being over" 
hn'^Uwl, tsti-i-iiii. 

Comfort . . . . 
Darwin .... 

I.n'l, ijw^ty/i. 
linK, Ode to 
,w [ileejj tlic IJrave " 


», The 
COLMAN, GEORGE (The Younger). 

I!ii;;lan.|. 176a i8j6. 

GluggityGluK .... 
.Sir M.trniaduke .... 
Toby TohHpot .... 

Mui»ic ..... 

Silly Eair 



.New V«jrk. f'it»-t>J^ 

An Ex|)ericticc and a Moral 

I'uMishcrs ! J|.,i,ylit.,n, MiJIlm U t;o., U'j^loa 


liUiil.,n.I. ,Tjri'.y. 

Approach of Age, Tlic ... 
Mourner, The ... 

Peasant, The 

Quack Medicines 





:... b. iHtH. 

Abram and Zimri 

liiiXlari.l, 1,. 1817. 

" Hang up his harp ; he Ml wake no more* 
Old Arni-Cbair, The .... 

Sea Murmurs 


Ucrklc-y C>j., V;i.. iHid-tHyi. 

Florence Vane 

Hartror'l, C'jnri.. b. 1827. 

RJive du Midi 

I>u>,libli..'r> : Houghton. Mlinin & Co., Dotton. 

IJurliiitjloii. .N, J., 1789-1^51. 

My Hrigantine 


The Sunken City 


Eii;;lan.l. i6y>-i(«7. 




EnaLin.!, ir.,i-/7a8. 

The Fireside 



Chorus of English Songsters . 

Ribc of Specieij, 'i"hc .... 


licle. The 

Grasshopper, The (From tht Greek) . 
Hymn to Light, From the 

Invocation, The 

Of Myself 


lioadicea _. 


Cricket, The 


I'reenian, The 

Happy Man, The 




My Country 

My Mother's Picture 

Nightingale and Glow- Worm, The . 


Rose, The 

Royal George, On the Loss of the 

Russian Ice-Palace, A 


"Sweet stream, that winds" .... 
The Nose and the Eves .... 
Verses supposed to be written by Alexander 



Winter Walk at Noon 

By the . 

* liuried tf>-day " 

Dead Czar .Nicholas, The 

Fletcher Harper, lo the Memory of . 

Her Likeness 

Lancashire Doxology, A . , . 
Mercen.iry Marriage, A . . . 
Now aiifj Afterwards .... 
Only a Woman .... 
Philin, my King 

in, m 
Too Late 

Alcun.ltu. li. C, I,. ,i,,j. 

Correspondences 3^,1 

Thouglit «/j 

I'uUiihcfs; Houghton, Mifflin ai Co., and Koberu Bros. 

I:n>it,n.l. ii„^A,j. 

Music's Duel 7^, 

Supposed .Mistress, U'ishes for the \\h 

"Two men went up to tlie Teropie to pray" . 324 


" We parted in silence " i:,i 


Irebn.), iir,^,u„. 

Genius of Death, The 720 

Leonirtis, The Death of ... , 5,/^ 

Pericles and Aspasia 5,/j 


.Sc.Ml.,,,.!, if'.i-i'.ifi. 

"Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie" . 159 
Poet's Bridal-Day Song, T)ie . . ,<y, 

Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, A 

Irelan'I. nvf-t^T^ 

Moniing jr^jj 


Ail.iHcvl. II. 

Silent Baby 2, 




IZ.mA,Mi-.. f.-i-iHT,. 

Beach Bird, The Little . 
Husband and Wife's Grave, The . 
Island, The .... 
Pleasure-Boat, The .... 

Soul, The 

J'tjl.itblicri : Ch;ulc5 Scrjbncr's Sons, New York. 

lin,:Liin'J, it/z^iliv,. 

Love is a Sickness .... 


Gambols of Children, TTie 

Song of the Summer Winds . 

The Storm ( Leonore) ..... 392 


Hanks of the Lee, The 
Flower of Finae, 'Hie . 
Maire Bhaii Astor , 
Sack of Baltimore, The 
Welc/jme, The . 

The Happy H<.'art 






lt,«iuv. i?9--. 

The Maiseillea Hynm 5-S 


CoA{,TraHs/aliOH^Sir yi'Mn BiHvriHg) . 330 

Early Friendship 61 

D11U1IN, CHARLES., l'4?-lSi4. 

Tom Howling 5S7 


tnal.i".!. 177>-1S41. 

.-Ul'sWell 5S5 

SnuK Liiile Island, The .... 516 


Ivy Green, The 4-i* 


l...«viUc. N. v.. K 1&4.-. 

The Children ..... iSi 


i;i«l.m.l, .*S!-it«-.-. 

The New .Icrusalem .V3 


^' Sec, O, Seel" ibb 


The Mariner's Dream 5^7 


B,-sc.»«vll. S. 11.. 179S>-lS70. 

Dies Ira; (.^ri>/KM<ri,i.'/») . . . .313 

Ihnl.vml, lfc4-lS;^. 

Absent Soldier's Son, The . . • . i()S 

Home, Wounded 3i» 

H.nv'smy Bov? 570 

M.irkel wife's Song 461) 

Milkmaid's Song, The 17 

" She UMiclies a sad string of soft recnll " . n)f" 

Tommy 's dead 269 


liefore Sedan 4S0 

Growing Gray 7'5 


Enslnml. I7s>--i7fl. 

^'.Amasing, beanteous change I . . . SJ") 
Duni Vivunus, Vivamus .... 335 

ChniK'Ston. S. C, li. 1835. 

Outgrown 336 

Three Ships, The 759 

l'\iMisliei!. ! .1. 11. Llpi>li\cc.|t & Co., Pliilii<lcli*la. 


UllKl.uul, toS7-i7,-o. 

The Fire of Love ... . . S5 


See Gri!HN. .Annik D. 


Eiwl.uul. ivboul iw... 

Sleep 677 


linjil.uul, !>, iSu\ 

The Private of the Buffs . ... 473 


New V,.ii; Oily. i7ms-..<.-.v 

American F'.iK. *l'he ..... 536 
Culprit Fay, 'rhe 769 


lini;l.uul. i56!-,6,i,. 

Ballad of Agincourl, The .... 456 
" Come, let ns kisse and parte " . . . 191 


Scothiul, itSi-iSjo. 

Ends of Life, The J04 

Thrush, The 43* 

l)l;\ I'l N. lOMN'. 

\l.-\,in.i. 1 ^ I'cMsl, or the Power of Music . 

t Hiver tJromwell _. 

Portrait of Joltn Milton, Lines written underthe 


Song for St. Cecilia's Day, .A . . . 
Veui Creator Spiritus(.A>i»M Mi- liitiM) 

Zirari . . 



" To heaven approached a Sufi saint " ( Trans- 
/.ition ,/ U: K. .^/J:er) .... 

ll.-liuul, iS..7-i8t..-. 

L.miem ol the Irish Kmii;l.lnt .... 


I ask I 


A Song for the " Hearth and Home" 

l!u>t,.ii, Mil>s.. 1>. 1813. 

True Rest 



Nv'ilhiduj.ton. M.,Si., i7S-.-iSr7. 

Columbm 533 


Aunli.i, r.. 




1 lAVAUD. 

■* My minde to me a kingdom is" , 

lU,tl.„Kl...i, VI., isit^isoi, 

,'\ Suow-Storm 


three grains of corn, 
ELLIOT, El!ENEZER(7'Af 0.r« 

ther" . : 
!«• Rhymer). 

Burns S37 

Poet's Epitaph, A s.-; 

Spring j.'ij 


liiii;UiiKl. 1.. iil'oul 1770, 

I>ameut for Bion (Fri/m the Gretk q/Moschus) jSj 

.NVvv Y,.tk. iSo.v.i;*.i, 

Duke of Reichstadt, On the Death of . . S33 

riiWisliets : ll.iii».r & lirolheis. New York. 


UoMoii, .\l.i^.v. i!»,;-iSSa. 

Borrowing 746 

Boston Hvmn 5i<. 

Brahma ' 73.- 

Conci^rd Monument Hymn .... 53,? 

Each and All 305 

Friendship 59 

Good By 71'^ 

Hen. Cras, Hodie 74*' 


Humble-Bee, To the 44^ 

lustice 71* 

Northman. . 74*' 

Poet 7-1*'' 

Problem, The (-73 

Qualr<iins and Fragments .... 741. 

Rhodoia, The 4-M 

Sea, The s^^ 

Snow-Storm, The 403 

PuWIsliers i Hoiightoi.. Milllln Jir Co., Uoston. 



Baby Louise 31 


The Right must Win 356 






The Shipvyreclt 

Enigma CITie Letter H) . 

tnzlii/i'l, ■711-1777- 
Hie Brown Jug 


Culf-Weed .... 

Forging of the Anchor, The . 
Pretty Girl of Loch Dan, The . 


i'ortim^utJi. ,N'. H.. (%i7-t«gi- 
Dirgc for a Young ttrl . 
Nantucket Skipper, The . 
Tempest, The 

PuMisticr-. ; Hought'/g, .MilBm & Co, BosttM. 


lllia'..-,, N.y„ b. i«a7. 

T*he Blue and the Gray . 

CiBcirmatJ, O. 

Bachelor's Hall .... 


Tlie O" Lincoln Family 400 

PobliJieis : Hougtiton, MiSm it Co., Boa'.>u. 


*' Drop, drop, slow tears" .... 322 

'iTie MusicalDuel 7+, 

FORRESTER, ALFRED H. (X^rf<jf CrmiouUt). 

En^bu-J. b. 1875, 

To my Nose 918 


Cii.cimiati, O;. t32s-ia!o. 

The Maize 420 


ya:-jrii-i. fa., t»/^i>At, 

My Old Kentucky Home 
FOX, W. J, 

En^Und, b- 1785, 

The Martyr's Hymn (German 0/ Lulher) 




Gcmiany, b. i^jo. 

Lion's Ride, The (.From the German) 
Traveler's Vision, The 


PhiUddj/hia. Pa-, b. i&jg- 

Autumn .... 


NcwUjryi>-jn, Mai^, 1804-1^79. 

Sonnet written in Prison . 

tu'/LinJ, i6%!-i732. 

Black-eyed Susan 

Hare and many Friends, The 

Lines written in an Album 

llie Dying Saviour . 



The Wood of Chancellorsville 


liUifiiti-i. b. i8/.. 

I o the Terrestrial Globe . 
Yarn of the " Nancy Bell," The . 

lioi<i':nl<jym. .N, J., b, 1^44. 

Dawn ,..,.., 
PuUiih.:TS ; Charles Scribntr'i Sk-ns, .Vew York. 


ii'mon, Mjv^.. b, i;q4. 

The Child's Wish in June 

HjI1v»c!(. M.t, b. r3«7. 

Cape-Cottage at Sunset .... 

To Death (Tranilation) .... 

OcTIfisiiy. i;j^i%j3, 

Fisher, The (Tranj, C. 'A. Brooki) 
King of Thule, 'VhKiTrani B. Taylor) 
Mignon's Song ( Tratu. F Hemani) 

IrcUnd, 1725-1774, 

Deserted Village, The , , . , 

Great Britain 



Madame Blaize, Elegy on 

Mad Dog, Elegy on the Death of a 

The Frost . 

" My dear and only love " . , . , 


" If doughty deeds my lady please " 


S^Mliui.i, i7'.<-i8n. 

The Sabbath 


Scotland, iTSis-igrf. 

Brooklet, The 


* Die down, O dismal day " , . 


"0 winter, wilt thou never, never go ? " 

EnsLw-l, I7i'^i;7i- 

Elegy written in a Country Chtirchyard . 
Eton College, On a Distant View of . 


GREEN, ANNIE D. (Marian DougUi). 


. H. 

Puritan Lovers, The 

Two Pictures 

PublJshefi : H.yu;itit.,n, Mifflin & Co,, B«aon. 


Pr'/ii.l.r!>cc, K. 1„ i3vj-t2<8. 

"Old Grimes is dead" 

Publisher : S, S, Rider, Providence, R. L 


England, 1 560-1592, 

"Ah! what is love" 



Shepherd's Wife, Song of the ... 

See LiPFi.s'cr>TT, Sakah J. 

Darkness is thinning (TVdw/. 7. jV: AVa^) , 

Veni Creator Spiritus (Prom tlu Latin by jfohn 



En^jland, 1655.^645, 






Guilfor\l. Conn.. i;oo-i86;. 

Alnwick Castle 635 

Burns Sa? 

Fortune 696 

Jt^eph Rodman Drake .... 854 

Rl.irco l!oz<.iris 524 

On A Portr.^il of Red J.ickcl . S43 

Wcchawkcn 633 

PtiWishors : P. Appleton S; Co., New York. 

HALPINE, CHARLES G. (.AfiUs 0'Jitt/(y). 

Ufl.uui. iS>)-iSt-j. 

Quakei-dom — The Formal Call ... 106 

rubii^hcrs : ll.irpcr vS: Brothers. New York. 


Hllgl.lilJ. ISM-16I3. 

Kortune ^55 

Of a cerlaine Man SS.<; 

Of Writers that cirp at other Men's Books . Sjs 

Treason ^.^5 

W.irres in Ireland, Of the .... 405 

Allvinv. N.V.. Iv 1S35. 

Dickens in Oimp S40 

Dow's Flat Sq9 

Her Letter SSg 


Plain L,ans^i.-ne from Truthful James (Heathen 

Chinee) . ^ SSS 

Pliocene Skull, To the .... Sgj 

Ramon SoS 

The Society upon the Stanislaus . . SSS 
!\iblislicri : HoiigluoH, ^timil\ & Co., Boston. 

>V.Ues. I7^x>-x;;4. 

A Soliloquy 44' 


S.ilcm. In.l.. Iv iSjs 

B.nnlvTim V" 

Woni.ui's Low 334 

Pul»Ii.;hcrs : Houffhton. Miffiln & Co.. Boston. 


Ch.irU-htoll. S. C, iSj.-lSSS. 

Love scorns Degrees 69 

Preexislence 734 

PiiWislicrs : 11. J. Hale & Son. NewYVrk. 


Enjjlaiul. irS3-vS.«. 

" If thou wert by my Side, my love . . 171 


C;uul>ridifc. Mass.. b. 18^. , „ „ 

"A mightv fortress is our l.od" {FntH tht 
GfrmoH of Martin Litlier^ . . . .335 

Enijlanil. 1TS4-ISW. 

Craves of a Household, The . . . • 305 

Homes of Etvsland, The .... iSo 

Kindred Hearts 5* 

landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, The . 551 

Meetins of the Shiiis. The . .^ . . 57 

Mignon's Song iFromthc Gfrman o/Gcel/u) 737 
Treasures of the Dceft The . . . .57^ 

Wordswirth, To S3 5 


Church Porch, The 33? 

Gifts of God, The 696 

Life 717 


Lent, A True . 

Night Piece. The 

Primrose, Tile , 

Primroses, To 

" Sweet, be not proud " . 

Thanksgiving for his House 



" Said I not so ? " 

Ennl.m.l. i5.)i-it,-». 

" .V sweet disorder in the dress 
Ben lonson, Ode to . 
Ber. Jonson, Prayer to . 
Blossoms, To . ; . 
Corinna's ^ing a Maying 
Country late. The . 


'* Go, happy rose 1 " . 
Holy Spirit, The . 
■:iss,The .... 


Violets ... . . 

Virgins. To the .... 


Elislalul. ir99-l8;». 

'* Adieu, adieu 1 our dream of love" 





EnelanJ. Tinic of gii. 


Nov Hrun>»i.-k. N. J., h. iSlS. 

The Bobolink . 


New York tTity, 1S06-1S34. 

ity, i8o6-l8S4. 


Scoti.uia, i7r--isi?. 

lock Johnstone, the Tinkler . 


Skvlark, The .... 

When tlie Kyc come Hame 

Uclchcnovvn. M.-issi.. iSi»-iSSi. 
Cradle Song ( Bitlrr-Stvtet) 

Publislicni : Cli.irlcs Scribncr's Sons, Nci 


Cnmliri.lse. Mass., Iv 1S09. 

Bill and Joe ... . 
City .ind Country 
Coutentnient .... 
Daniel Webster . 
Height of the Ridiculous, The 


Ode for a Social Meeting 
Old Ironsides . 
One-Hoss Shay, The . 
Plowman, The . 
Rudolph the Headsman •• • "'"'"■ '■ 


i:lnon, Mifflin &■ Co., Boston. 


"^ Winter Song ( TranshUiex p/CharUsT. . 


Englaml. i;5S-iS45. 

Autumn 395 

Bridge of Sighs, The . . 
Diversities of Fortune 
Dream of Eugene jVram, The 
F.aithless Sally Brown 
" Farewell, life !" 

Forlorn Shepherd's Complaint, The 


Heir, The Lost . . ■ ■ 

Infant Son, To my . 

" I remember, I remember ' 

Moniing Meditations 

No Sketch .... 


Sailor's Consolation, The 

Song of the Shirt. The 

" We watched her breathing " 

" What can an old man do but die " 






Ncwl)ury|;ort, Mass., 1816-1841. 

Three Loves 

I'ulilislKTN : J. H. Ulpiiincolt & Co., PhUaiklplila. 


Charlie Machree 


Sew York r:ity. h. 

Battle Hymn of the Republic . 

Royal Guest, The 

I'liblklicrs : Moii^'hton, MiHIin & Co., Boston. 


Enj,'l,iii(l, b. 1799. 

liroom Flower, The 

Use of Flowers, The 

Hiit(l.iiirl. i;9>-i«7o. 

Departure ol the Swallow, The 

Summer Noon, A 


EnAin.l, 1,. iSp; il. New York. .864. 

First SprinK Flowers .... 

** Now I lay me down to sleep " . 


PublUhtTs : E.I". Dullon & Co.. New York. 


.Mew Y.jrk. ig'jS-lSya. 


Snow. — A Winter Sketch . . . . 

Enn!;m'l. i8Ih century. 

A Doubt 


Ir.ince, iSo2-i>a^. 

The Poor Fisher Folk {^Alexander's Tratts.) 
Scoilind, 1711-1776. 

The Story of a Summer Day 

Jin^land. 1784-1857. 
Abou Ben Adhcm 
Child durinj; Sickness, To a 
Cupid Swallowed 
Fairies' .SonK 
Glove and the Lions, The 
Grasshopper and Cricket, The 


f' Jenny kissed me " . 
Love-Lelters made of Flowers 


Mahmoud .... 


Trumpets of Doolkamcin, The 

En^.la,..], 174-.-182.. 

Indian Death-Song 

A Bird's Nest 


liii^iaiid, b. tHy}. 


High-Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire 
Like a Laverock in the Lift . 
Maiden with a Milking-Pai), A 

Seven Times One 

Seven Times Two .... 
Seven Times Three .... 


' of Sunderland 
INGOLDSEY, THOS. See Barham. R. H, 

A.nh.;rst. M.'.v... ,8j:.,385. 


My Legacy 

PublisJiLTs : Roberts Eroihcrs, Boston. 


Savaniwh, Ga., b. 1810. 

My Wife and Child 


Slabat Malcr Dolorosa {Co/es's Translalion) . 


Eni;l.,n.|, <1. 1854. 

The Beacon 574 


.New|,ort, .S. It., b. 18)5. 

Going and Coming 728 


Eii|;);in.l. i;4;)-i3i-,. 

Signs of^Rain 381) 


EnL.|.,n.|. I',ib. 1817. 

The Walcr-Drinkcr . . ... 494 


Elinlrin.l. ir.,^i-?4. 

Charles XII 816 


Eniil.ind. 174(^1704. 

liaby. The (From tlu Saiiskril) 
*' Vvhat constitutes a State ?" 
JONSON, BEN. 1574-1637. 

" DrinK to me only with thine eyes " . 
Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H . 
Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 
Fantasy ...... 

" Follow a shadow, it still flics you " . 
Freedom in Dress .... 

Good and Fair 

Noble Nature, The .... 
Robin GofidfcUow .... 

Those Eyes 


True Growth, The .... 
Vision of Beauty, A . . , . 

Mv Bird . 


Eve of St. Agnes, The . . . . 

Fairy Song 

Grasshopper and Cricket, The . 
Ode on a Grecian Urn . 
Ode to a Nightingale . . . . 

En;;l.iiidT i7r^ifi66. 



Faith . 


Scotlanfl, b. 1S41. 

Greenwood Cemetery 


Robin Adair 




Prt.|..rick Co.. M.I.. I77'^i843. 
The Star-spangled Banner . 


New H.impslMrc, b. 1814. 
All's Well . . 

Death < 

if a Beautiful Wife 

En^Und, 1819-1875. 

A Rough Rhyme on a Rough Matter 
Merry Lark, The .... 

Sands o' Dee 

Three Fishers, The ... 


I'cnn Y..n, N. Y.. b. i8s6. 
Rain on the Roof 












Richmond Cluircliyard, Lines written m . 309 


Iri:l,.ll,l, .7.-.4-iSt..., 

Swilzcrl.iiul 529 

Scotlaiul, i7if./-isj5. 

"O, why siiould the spirit uf mortal be 

proud ? " 301 


IkTiiiany. lyji-iSi.i. 

Good TSlighHTram/alwa <>/ C. T. £>-aoAs) . 504 
Men and Hoys " " " . 527 

Sword Song, Tlie " " " . 468 


OcniKiiij', i774-i«(vS. 

Alpine Hc\^hli (Traris/tttiott t}/ C. T. Broohs) 407 
Moss Rose, The (rra«j/«/io«) . . .433 

EllKlnil,!. I77;-.SM, 

Farewell to Tobacco, A . , . . 491 

Housekeeper, The 451 

John Lailiu, Esq., To S32 

Old Familiar Faces, The 3O2 


UiiltliUid. i;(.5-i847. 

Choosing a Name 18 


liiK'land, iSo:.-iSiS. 

Death and the Youth J34 

Female Convict, The 294 


Ullj;l.ui(l. I775-I.*4. 

Macaulay, lo 836 

Maid's Lament, The 279 

One Gray Hair, The 715 


ClKirli;stoil. S. C. iS4?-k';Si. 

Ccntenuial Meditation of Columbia . . 545 

Tublisliors : J. 1!. Uppiiicott & Co.. niilculel|)liin. 


Lowell. Mnss.. l>. 1S36. 

By the Fireside 176 

I'liblisticrs, Hoiijjliton, Millliii & Co., Doston. 

Lnjjlaiul. il. 18:4. 

Shamus O'Brien 519 



Only Seven 909 

The Twins S91 


l'lul.uloll>lli;l, I'il., li. 1S24. 

H.ans Breitmann's Party . . . . 901 

Ritter Hugo 902 

Publishers : T. U. Peterson & Bros., riiil.idcliiliia. 


Alfxaiulriii. vr-ii^. 

Wame {Traiislatiott 0/ Roitrl BlatiiO . . 175 
The Mother's Stratagem (Tr. J'. /ir.>i"-<:«) . 24 


Irdiuul, .S«-iS-j. 

Widow Malone 905 


niiKlnn.l. 1--S-IS.8. 

The Mani.ic 256 


Scotl.iii.l. 1775-1811, 

Daisy, The 426 

Noontide 370 

Sabbath Morning, The 370 

LIPPINCOTT, SARAH J. {Grace GreemvooS). 

I' N. Y.. I). .8.-!. 

The Poet of Today .... 738 

I»iil»liblicrs: Ticknor \- C'o.. Boston. 


tnjjhiiKl, l>. ii!-.-4, 

* My love is .ways near" . . . . 6f> 

On an Old Muff 876 

" The world 's a sorry wench, akin " . . 877 

Widow's Mite, The 246 


Scntlaiul, 1793-1854. 

Lord of Bntrago, The 
Znra's Ear-Rings 



SctHhiiuI, 1748-1789 

Cuckoo, Ti. t 

"Thv trir,, 
I'orllan.l, M i 

Agassi.-, I iluctli of 

Birds, I'lea for the .... 


Children's Hour, The . 


Divina Conimedia . . 

Evangeline in the Prairie 

Footsteps of Angels .... 


Hawthorne . _ . 

Household Sovereign, The {Ilan^itt^ i 

Hyniii to tlie Night '..'.'. 
Launch. Tlu 



St {Evnnsilim) 

Psalm of Life, A 
R.nin in Summer . 
Reaiier and the Flowers, The 
Resijtnalion .... 

Sea-Weed .... 
Snow- Flakes . 
Village Blacksmith, The 
Warden of the Cinque Ports, The 
IniiL'liton, ^IIB 

I'ulilisliers ; llniigliton, MllUiii & Co., Boston. 

liHt:lau.l. i6iS-i(,sa. 

Alihca from' Prison, To 

Lucasta, To 

Lucasta, on Going to the Wars, To 

trcland, i797-i^''Xi. 

Angel's Wliisjier, The 
Father Laud and Mother Tongue 
Low-backed Car, The . 
Rory O'More .... 
Widow Machree .... 

Sti.ll.ill.l. 17'.'-17')'<. 

Mary's Dream .... 


First Snow-Fail, The . 
Freedom, Ode to 
Henry Wadsworth Longfello 
Invitation, An . 


Summer Storm .... 

Villa Franca 

Washington, To .... 
What Mr. Robinson thinks 
William Lloyd Garrison 
Winter Pictures .... 
Winter's Evening Hymn to my Fire 


I'lihlishers : Hnii(rhtoii, Mimiii& Co.. Boston. 




. MiHliii & Co., Uostoii. 
Cliulin.lijc. Mass.. I). lSl6. 

The Relief of Lucknow . 






Ocniiany, 1481-1546. 

"A mighty fonress a oar GoA" (Tra>nlatu>n 

o/F.H. Hedge) 335 

Martyrs' Hymn, The ( Translation a/ W. J. 

Fax) 328 


EnylaiKl. A contemporary and associate of Byron and 



On Miss Maria Tree 

Kniil.uid, 1534-ifco. 

Cupid and Campaspe 148 

Bcnniiiyton. \'t,. b. about 18a). Lives in .New Votlc 

On a Picture aoi 

I'ublislicTs: H.irixr & Brothers. New York. 
Cincinnati, o.. 1826-1863. 

Antony and Cleopatra 293 


"Tell me, my heart, if this be love" . . 70 

linylind, i&3,-i3;j. 

Claude Mehiotte's Apology and Defence 206 

Etrurian Valley, In the . . • 628 


England, b. 18 ;i. 

Aux Italicns 228 

Changes 230 

Possession ■ 'S'* 

The Chess- Board 106 


I£ni;l..Tid, 18/^1.57. 

Horatius at the Bridge 507 

Monconlour 516 

Naseby 5'7 

Roman Father's Sacrifice, The ... 794 


Ireland. 1820-18^. 

'Ah, sweet Kitty Neil!" 5' 


Ireland 523 

Labor Song 502 

Love and Time <^^ 

Summer Longings Tfio 


1-nal.ind, b. 1824. 

Babv, The 18 

Earl O'Quarterdeck 603 


Scotlanil. b. 1814- 

Cleon and I 66S 

Small Beginnings 697 

" Tell me, ye wmged winds " . . . .332 

Tubal Cain 488 


IrcLinil, 1753-1842. 

Waiting for the Grapes 142 

MAHONY. FRANCIS (Fallier Prmt). 
Ireland. iSvs-ia/,. 

liellsof Shandon, The 65S 

Bonaparte, Recollections of (/"rt^wj^^ra^/^fr) fiz2 

Flight into Eg>'pt, The 344 

Passage 637 


Ireland. i8o3-i8.',9. 

The Sunken City {From the German) . . 752 


tni^'ian !. i304-iyy3. 

X'he .shepherd to his Love . . . .104 

What is Ti 



England, 1575-1674. 

A Scholar and his Dog 855 


Death of the White Fawn 
Drop of Dew. A . 
Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda 

tjueen of Ilunsary. d. 1558. 

A Prayer 

MASSEY, GERALD. b. 18;* 

" O, lay thv hand in mine, dear" . 
Our Wee While Rose . 
Passionate Pilgrim's Song, The 

Clyl.f. N. v.. b. Hi',. 

The fJld Conlinentals 

Colulllbi,!, S. C. I814-1865. 


Grcvce, 9li[i. C. 

The Vow (Translation e/ MerivaU 

LnKl;<nU. Ir79-i844. 

The Vow (From the Greek 0/ MeUager) 

En;.'Lind. 1720-176',. 

The Chameleon 


Give me the Old 711 



The Sailor's Wife . 




Willie WInkic . 


Unaland. I7vi-i8'<9. 

Hebrew Wedding 164 

Jewish Hymn in Babylon .... 33O 


Lnyland. i8>v-I^;;- 

Brookside, 'I he . . . . - 92 

Good Night and Good Morning . . . 31 

London Churches . . .... 25a 


Enj:lan-I. 160^1674. 

Abdiel 347 

Adam and Eve, Nuptials of ... 160 
Adam's Morning Hymn in Paradise 


I Ev 


Battle of the Angels 

Blindness, fJn his 330 

Blindness. On his own (7a Cyriack Skinner) 672 

Christmas Hymn 724 

" Comus," Scenes from .... 755 

Creation 363 

Cromwell, To the Lord-General . . 817 

Evening in Paradise 374 

Haunt of the Sorcerer .... 756 

II Pcnseroso 710 

Invocation to Light 3''.'7 

L' Allegro TO 

Lady lost in the Wood .... 755 

Lvcidas 2H2 

May Morning 384 

Nymph of the Severn 75^ 

Satan's Address to the Sun .... 805 

.Samson .Agonistes 241 

Selections from " Paradise Lost " . . 241 


Tacking Ship oft Shore 57' 







Englaiul. 1780-1855. 

Rienzi to the Romans 512 


Scolland. 1798-1351- 

Casa Wappy 268 

Jaraie 's on the Stormy Sea . . . 574 

Rustic Lad's Lament in the Town, The . . 19S 

Song of the South 415 


Scotland, 1771-1H54. 

Birds 433 

Common Lot, The 3=9 

Coral Insect, The sSt 

Daisy, The 42<i 

Forever with the Lord 353 

■' Make way for Liberty !" . ... 528 

My Country 5°5 

Night 376 

Ocean, Tlie 560 

Pelican, The 444 

Sea Life 5S0 


To Madame de St^vign^ 8^5 


New York Cit}-. 1779-185=. 

St. Nicholas, A Visit from .... 44 

Ireland, i7;<^iS52. 

Acbar and Nourmahal 112 

" As by the shore, at break of day " . . 544 

" As slow our ship '* 189 

" Eelieve me, if all those endearing young 

charms" " . -123 

Birth of Portraiture, Tlie .... 103 

Black and Blue Eves 143 

Campbell, To '. S32 

Canadian Boat-Song, A 6iS 

*' Come, rest in this bosom "... 133 

Eclioes ........ 92 

" Farewell, but whenever " ... 193 

" Farewell to thee, .Araby's daughter," . . 2S9 

" Fly to the desert, fly with me " . . 95 
Lake of the Dismal Swamp, The . . .782 

'• Let Erin remember the days of old" . 518 

Linda to Hafed 207 

Love's Young Dream 224 

" Oft, in the stilly night " . . . .237 

" (1, breathe not his name" ... S34 

Origin of the Harp, The 762 

"("), the sight entrancing " . . . 465 

Spnns {Fro,,! t/ie Greek or A iiacreon) . . 3 84 

Syria ..,.'.... 4-3 

Temple to Friendship, A .... 61 

" The Harp that once through Tara's halls" 518 
The Young May Moon . " . . . .151 

" Those evening bells " .... 237 

Valeof Avoca, The 59 

Vale of Cashmere. The .... 414 

Verses written in an .Album .... 87 


Elli;laiirl, d. i8o= 

Euthanasia 720 


France. I=l!i Century. 

The Celestial Country (Tra,is. J. M. .Vea/e) 311 

Pliiladelpliia, Pa., iSco-1864. 

The Retort S9. 

" Woodman, spare that tree " . . .41 


IinL,'Iaiid. ]'ub. 1786-1802. 

The Catalogue 153 


England, b. 181J. 

Atalanta Conquered 1 1 1 

Atalanta Victorious no 

Idle Singer, The 666 

March 379 

Pygmalion and the Image . . . .113 


Greece, 3d Century B. C. 

Lament for Bion { Traiu. o/C. A. Elton). . 2S2 

Jeanie Morrison ,5 

" My heid is like to rend, Willie " . . 232 

" They come ! the merry summer months " . 3S5 
I'o.iifret. Conn., b. 1S35. 

Late Spring, The 24; 

Troth-Plight ,7: 

Entriand. pub. 1859. 

The Three Sons 30 

Germany. 1794-1827. 

The Sunken City (7'ra«j. y. C. ;i/,in^a«). . 752 

See Craik, Dinah Mulock. 

England, b. 1828. 

A Pastoral 82 

Apres 695 

England, t>. 1843. 

From "St. Paul" 359 


Scotland. 1766-1845. 

Laird o' Cockpen, The 156 

Land 0' the Leal, The 292 

England. 1558-1600. 

" Spring, the Sweet Spring " . . , . 3S4 


England, 1818-1866. 

" Art thou wearj. ? " [Lntm of St. Stephen tlu 

Sabaiie') .327 

Celestial Country, The (From tlie Lathi 0/ 

Bertiard tie lilorlaix) 311 

" Darkness is thinning" {From t/ie Latin of 

St. Gregory the Great) .... 322 
\ txi\\d.'B.^%\%(Froi,i the Latin) . . . 319 
England, 1798-1828. 

" Moan, moan, ye dying gales "... 235 

New Vcrk City. b. 1836. 

National Anthems gii 

Publishers: Lee c'i: Sliepard, Boston. 

England, b. i8.ji. 

Flowers without Fruit 741 

The Pillar of the Cloud .... 326 

Greenwicli, X. I. I'nh. 1844. 

The Philosopher Toad 7S9 


Enirland. Pub. 1841. 

The Pauper's Drive 257 


England. 1O57-1711. 

My Little Saint 142 


See Wilson, John. 

Hinghani. Mass., i78'i-lS53. 

After a Summer Shower 392 


England. i8.:«-i876. 

Arab to his favorite Steed, The . . .612 

Biugen on the Rhine 47'J 

King of Denmark's Ride, The . . . 2SS 

Love Not 24" 

Mother's Heart, The 32 

'* We have been friends togetlier ".,5s 


Kentucky, ab.nut i82o-i8t)~. 

The Bivouac of the Dead . . . .54° 

Ireland. 1747-1853. 

" I am a fnar of orders gray " . . , ^''~ 






War's Loud Alarms (J^i 

Ttilftaiarn) .... 
" Where are the raen ? " l,From 

England, i76»-i853. 

The Orphan Boy's Tale . 

See Charles G. Halpine. 

Boston. M.iss. 1812-1850. 

To Labor is to Pray . 

FryeburiJ. Me,, h. 1841. _ 
Driving H " " 

the IP'eli/t of 
1 the same). 

Publishers : Hougtuon, .Mirtliii & Co., Boston. 

Scotlanii, i3o5-iy<A. 

The Annuity 



" For Charlie's sake " 
Thread and Song . 
Publisliers'^ Charles Scribner's 

1 The. 

Tlie Soul's Cry ... . 
Publislier ; A. D. F. Randolph. Xcw York. 
Stockbrklge. Mass., 1805-1884.. 
The Smack in School 

Mr. Simms 

Lexington, Mass.. i8io-i86j 

" The Wav, the Trtith, and the Life " 
Publishers ; D.'Appleton & Co., New York. 

Hnt-lin.!. i67.,-iri7. 

'' When your beauty appears " 

On ; 

England, b 18=3- 
Mistress, The , 
Rose o£ the World, The 
Sly Thoughts . 
Sweet Meeting of Desires 
Wisdom . 


New Yoik City. i;s2-i352. 

Home, Sweet Home .... 
Brutus's Oration over the Body of Lucreti; 
Publisher : J. Munsell, Albany. .N'. Y, 

Near I'liil.ldelphia. Pa., 1778-1860. 

Faith and Hope 


The Heaving of the Lead 
Berlin. Conn.. 1795-1856, 


Coral Grove, The 

Seneca Lake 

Publishers :, Mi91in & Co., Boston. 

See Allen, Elizabeth A. 

England, 17:8-1811. 

Friar of Orders Gray, The 
" O Nancy, wilt thou go with me ?" . 

After the Ball 


Love Knot, The 


pettee, g. w. 

Sleigh Song 


i^erni.iiiy, i73&-i.go9. 

The Nobleman and the Pensioner {Trans- 
lation 0/ CharUs T, Brooks) 


England. i(>75-i749. 

" Blest as the immortal gods " {From tlie 

England, 1676-17.18. 

The Splendid Shilling 


" Drink to me only with thine eyes" {Traits- 
lation 0/ Ben Jonson) 


Litchlield, tonn,. 1785-1866. 

My Child 

Not on the Battle- Field .... 

Passing Away 

Passing Bell, The 

Warren's Address 



Annapolis, Md„ i8os-l8=8. 

A Health 

. C. Armstrong & Son, New York. 


Scotland, 179>-I837. 

Ocean . 

, The 


England. 16S8-1744, 
Addison . 
Author's Mi 
Belinda . 
Dying Christian to his Soul, The 


Future, The 


Happiness ..... 
and Couplets . 

Nature's Chain 
Profusion . 
Quiet Life, The 

Ruling Passion, The . 
Scandal . . . . 
Sporus, —(Lord Hervey) 

Universal Prayer, The 

New York, b. 1826. 



Eii^lanil. 1802-1^39. 

Belle of the Ball, The . 



'°Th"e closing Ye'ar ' 


. 1837-1870. 
r the Rii 

Scotland, 1789-1834. 

" Afar in the desert " 


En.dnnd, I>^4-1721 

The Lady's Looking-Glass 






biKlnml. iteo-isoj. 

Doubting Heart, A 

Lost Cliorrf, A 

'* Dtily waitiii,^ " 

l*cr Pacem nd Lucem .... 

Wmn.iu's Question, A . . . . 
PROCIEK, BRYAN \\ .[Barry Cornwall). 
Hiv,:l;in(l. 1787-1874. 

Address to tlie Ocean .... 

Blood Horse, Tlie 

" Kor love's sweet sake " . 

C.olden tiirl, A . . . . 

Hnnter's Sons, The. 


IKvl, The 

" I'eacc ! What can tears avail ? ' 

Petition to Time, A . 

Poet's Song to his Wife, The 

Sea, The 

*' Sit down, sad soul " . 

•' Softly woo away her breath " 

Song of Wood Nymphs 

Stormy Petrel, Tnc . 

White Squall, The 

Homba, King of Naples, Death-Bed c[ . 

Chemist to his Love, The . 

Collegian to his Bride, The 

1 ones at the Barber's Shop .■ 

Roasted Sucking Pig 


Enetinnl. 1592-1&44 

Delight in God 

Vanity ofthe World, The .... 
UiiM.^ind, 155^1618. 

Lines written the Night before his E.Kecution . 

Nymph's Reply, The 

Pilgrimage, The ,..,.• 

Scoll.ind, 1685-17SS- 

Lochabcr no more 


Wooilbrid^e. X. I., b. iSi-o. 

Hopefully Waiting 

Enj^bnd, 1(105-1634. 

Fairies' Song ( Translation 0/ Lci^h Hunt 
from the Latin) . . ■ .' . 
RANKIN, J. E., D. D. 

■' "" . iS-8. Pull. Boston. 1867. 




The^Love of God ( Trans, of W. C. Bryant') 351 

Ci.uimnti. llhio. 1>. 1840, 

Cavalry Song 4C>^> 

Complinionts of the Season .... 26 

Grecian Temples at Pajstum, The . . . 619 

Imiironiptu 8<)2 

Knth 2J 

" Shall 1 love you like the wind, love" . 79 

.Song of the Sea 7'io 

Troopers' Death, The {From the German) 467 

Cllcslcr. P.I.. i8i.--l8;5. 

Angler, The 621 

Brave at Home, The 505 

Closing Scene, The 651 

Drifting 751 

Reapei^s Dream, The 347 

Sheridan's Ride 539 

I'uhlKlicrs 1 J. 11. Uppincott & Co.. Hiil.iclclpliia. 

REDDEN, LAURA C. (Hmuard Glyndon). 
SoiinTsct County, Md., b. about 1^40. 


Baby Zulma's Christmas Carol 
London, l£ntj., li. 1817. 

Under the Cross . . 



City, li, 1837. 

Bayard .,, 

Difference, The i ,s s 

Once . 131 

Perished 2 jo 

Sub Silentio ^,s 

Why? !<S 


Veni Sancte ^\i\\\\\\^ {.Translation of Catha- 
rine iVink-Morth) 317 


foilMiinutli, N. II. 

The Voice of the Grass 437 


Enijinml, 170.1-1855. 

Descent, The 40S 

Ginevra 005 

Great St. Bernard, The 40S 

It.ily I2S 

Marriage 65 

Mother's Stratagem, The {Front the Greek) . 34 

Music 6)1 

N.aples (12 

Rome 629 

Sleeping Beauty, A .^S 

Tear, A 712 

Venice fcS 

Wish, A 17s 


Return of Spring (7>(:«j/iz^/tJH) . . . 3S2 

ROSCOE, Wll.l.lAM, 

The '^iother Nighting.ale(^»-D«//«5'/(i«ii/i) 444 


''"ii'i'l'kiiiV'Maid, The f'7 

Up-Hill 326 


Uligl.ilul, i8-.8-if8=. 

Blessed Damozel, Tile 75? 

Lost Days 7'7 

Nevermore, The 7-" 

Sleepless Dreams 70S 


Sir Philip Sidney S16 


River Song 755 


Nc». Kocliclle. N. Y.. 1.. 1818 

" Are the children at home " . . . .270 

of Liiihos I 

Blest as the immortal gods 
of A mlrrose Philips) . 

Higllgatc. \"t.. 1816- 

American Aristocracy 
Death and Cupid 

s me softlv 

how I lore you " . . 
Railroad Rhyme .... 
Stammering Wife, The .'sWill .... 
Publishers : Hoiij,'hlon. MitHiu & Co.. Boston. 


Scotland. 1771-1S32, 
Bear an Dhuiiie 
" Breathes there the man " . 
Christmas in Olden Time 
Clan-Alpine, Song of . 
Coronach (Lady ofthe Lake) 
Gathering Song of Donald the Black 
Helvellvn . '. . . 
High Seas, The . 
Mncgregor's Gathering . 
Melrose Abbey 
Norham Castle 
Rose, The .... 
Scotland .... 
" Soldier, rest! thy warfare o 





blag Hunt, llie 

*' The heath this night must be my bed ' 

True and the False, The . 

'* Waken, lords and ladies gay " . 

Waterloo, The Charge at . 


lingUiiKf, i6ii-i;o.. 

Child and Maiden 

" Phillis is my only joy " 


America. <1. .833- 

Why thus Longing ? 

liiii;!-""!. 11O4-1616. 

-Airy Nothings ( Tempest) .... 
" Dlow, thou winter wind " (/li Vau Lille It) 
Cleopatra (// ntony and Cleopatra) . 
Course of true Love, The (.Midsutnmer 

Night's Dream) ..... 
Dagt'er ofthe Mind, A (A/ocA'/A) . 
Dover Cliff (A'/«i- Arar) .... 
Dream of Clarence [Richard III.) . 
Fairies' Lullaby ( Midsummer Night's Dream) 
Fancy {Mercitant 0/ Venice) 
*' Farewell ! thou art too dear " 
" Fear no more the heat " {Cymlrelirte) 

Friendshij) (Hamlet) 

Grief (//«>«&/) 

" Hark, hark! the lark " (.Cymieliiu) . 
Hotspur's description of a Fop {Henry IV.) 
Imagination (Midsummer Night's Dream) . 

Lear's Prayer 

Love (Merchant of Venice) .... 
Love Dissembled ^As Von Like //) . . 
Love, Unrequited ( Tivel/lh Night) . 
Love's Memory (All's iVell timl Ends Well) 
Martial Friendship (CVrrWrtWKf) 
Mercy (Merchant 0/ Venice) . • 

Murder, The (Macbeth) 

Music (Merchant 0/ Venice) 

l.\a%\z (Twelfth Night) 

Old Age of 'rcmperance .... 

OWv'm (Twelfth Night) 

" O mistress mine ! " ( Twelfth Night) 
Ofiportunity (Julius Carsar) .... 

Othello's Defence 

Peace, no Peace 

Peddler's Pack, The (tVintcr's Tale) 

Perfection (A-Zk^- 70/17/) 

Portia's Picture (Mercltant 0/ Venice) 
Queen Elizabeth, Compliment to (Midsummer 

Night's Dream) 

Queen Mab (Romeo and fuliel) 

Reputation (0M.7&) 

Romeo and Juliet, The Parting of 

Seven Ages of Man (As You Lite It) 

Shepherd's Life, A (Henry VI.) 

Sleep ( Henry IV. Part i) . 

Sleep (Henry I V. Parti) 

Sltep iCymleline) .... 

Sleep (.Wacleth) .... 

Sleep ( Tempest) .... 

Soliloquy on Death (//«»//(•/) 

" Take, O, take thoselips away " i^Md 


'* The forward violet " . 
** When icicles hang by the wall 

Labor 's Lost) .... 
" When I do count the clock " . 
"When in the chronicle" . . . 

" When to the sessions of sweet silent thought " 
Wols^y'sVxlKHenry VIII.). 
Wolsey's Speech to Cromwell (Henry VIII.) 

Amcric.!. Puh. iS'A 

Brierwood Pipe 

Civil War 


Engl:tnd, 175^1835. 

The Minute-Gu 


iiagtand. 1792-1823. 

Autumn .... 

Beatrice Cenci 

Change .... 

Cloud, The .... 

lanthe. Sleeping 

' ' I arise from dreams of thee ' 

Lament, A . . . 

Love's Philosophy 


Night .... 
Night, To . . . 
Ozymandias of Egypt . 
Skylark, To the 

"The sun is warm, the sky 

View from the Euganean Hill 


" When the lamp is shattered 

Unf-Lind. I7U-17<'3. 

Hope .... 
Schoohnistrcss, The . 



" Only the clothes she wore " 

EnjjIaiKl, i594-i<.66. 

Death, ihe Levclcr . 


The Plaidie . 




EngtinrJ. 15^-1 ^^<;. 

Love's Silence . . , . 
" My true-love hath my heart ' 
Sleep .... 


-Vorwich. O.nn., t-qi-t'^/>^. 

Coral Insect, The .... 

" Go to thy rest, fair child " 

Indian Names 

Lost Sister, The 

Man — Woman .... 
Publishers : H.imcrslcy & Co.. Hartford, Conn. 


Ireland, pul>. 1843 ; A. 18:0, 

To the Memory of Thomas Hood . 

Cliarlciton. -S. C. ;?f/.-i87o. 

Gra|>e-Vine Swing, The . 

Mother and Child .... 

Shaded Water 

I'ul.lKlicrs : A. C. Amistrong i Son, New York. 


Scotland. i?.yf-i^^. 

The Night before the Wedding 

Eii;:land. 1747-18-^5. 

The Swallow 


New Baltimore. N. V., b. jgsj. 

Bird Language 


Address to the Alabaster S.^rcophagus . 
Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition 

Flowers. Hymn to the 

Moral Cosmetics 

Tale of Drury Lane, A 

The Gouty ^terchant and the Stranger 


Turner, .M'-., 179^-1828, 

The Mother's Sacrifice 


England. I-7I-l>i4S. 

A Receipt for Salad 





sornii'v, MKs. Caroline bowlk 

' '\->ickwt-Uvti, Tho .... 
Taupcr's Ucrtth'liriU The . 
t'lnMTivwiuHl Sluift. Tho . 
Yovins ^''.\y Hcinl, Tlve 

Alleuhcim. Tli,- li.vtllc of . 
Oui«iACIi-f l.oiK.K-, rlio . 
Kmmcil's KpiiAi'li , , . . 
Gixl's JlulKliwivloH Uatlo . 
GireuwoiHl Shrift, The . 
HoU>- Iref. I'lm .... 
liUol Hoy, The . . . , 
iHchcnno kiH'k, The , 
Well of Si. Kcyiie, The . 

C.^t^kill. N. V„ I8,w. 

l.iviixg \V.Atew 

I«biul. ir>-lS.i4. 

liclh Oelert 

" 'r,K> lute I sli\>>«<l " . . . . 
Wile, t'ltildi'en, and Friends . 

Roxnsr of Bliss. Tho 

Cave of .<lcei>. The . . . . 

K.l_Mth;di\mion. The .... 

Mniistrv of Anijels, The . . . 

I'na .Old the l.ion .... 

Night ,<ea. The .... 


l^l|.li^l«■r^" . II.Micliwu. Mill\iii ,'« Co..>. 



, M.v 

KftiHilv Mcetiivji, Tito 
Indians . _ . 
Winced Wonilupiwrs. The 
^^lWiJ^^■K ! IL>«|!hlou. MlMln & Co.. liostvw. 

' "TheM.^dern lielle .... 

Betrothed .\new .... 
Cavalry Sonc .... 
Doorstep, The .... 
lohn Brown of Osawatoiuio 
Old Admiral. The .... 
What the Winds hriltE 
l\il.lKhMs: ll,.ii,;l,t..i>. Mifflm*Co., tloston. 


Sooll.,...!, ,!\«^,S44 

-Alfred the Ilari^jr .... 
Brantifnl Day, On a . . . 
Spice-Tree. The .... 



T'he Sto 

'"" Oood '.-lie """' .... 
SnriliitK in his Sleep . 


I'.uiW.ixl. (■.,1111.. i:S-^is.\\ 

The Soul's Detrance . . 

Hills).,,..,, \t.,«,. 1,, i!i!5, 

Bn^hma's ..\nsvver 

'* It never eiMnes ag-ain ** 

T«M Anclwui, The . 

^^,t■li^ll,■I^! ll,.,icl,t„ii. MiUlta ,t: C,>.. H,v,l 


S,VllA\Hl, Iv iSl.V 

The Anslets' Tn-stins-Tree . 

srt>RY, ROBKUr, 



i>.lloni. MrtSN.. I'. itUv, 


Bati «t Low 

Yiolet, The 

INilOlslieiM l.llll... Itrown v'6 Co., lliwlon. 


l.ittliHolil. Cmi., !■. iSi... 

A Day in the Panifili Dorin . 

Lines to the Mentory of Annio . 

'• Only a Year '• .... 

Other' World. The . . . , 
rul.llslvcrs,! H,.utlvi,ui. Mlltlln .1: C.v, lloshm, 


lillvUlut, i7.'',>-it4^.;. 

lllishted Love (»v». Mv P.vtm'Ms,) 

IViicliViTi.M,-. N. \.. iSii-iSSi. 

Nishtfall ... 

Settler. 'The 

I'.itel.nul, i<»v>-ic,4i. 

Bride, The 

*' I prithee send me back mv heart " . 
M,<ods . . . ' . 

" Why so iwle and wan ? " . 


l^inl.iii,!. ni<-is<;. 

Giw I'lnce, ye Lowrs . 
Means to attain Happy Life, Tho 

linsl""!. i*.->S;4 



" 'I onis ad resto m.trc * . . . . 

I.HkI.ouI. Iv. 

Disappointed Lover, Tho 


Match, A 

" When the hounds of spriirs " . 

l.nijl.m.i. u^3 IMS. 


Soul's Errand, 'The .... 
" Were 1 as base as is the lowly plain " . 


Symimthy (.From " Ion ") . . . 


War's Loud Alarms ((Vi>>*.i»/'s T^nMS/afifm) 
" Where are the men ? " [OlifA.^Hi's Tntus.) 


S,,,|laii,l. ir;4-iSi.'. 

Flower o" DumWane, I he 

" The inids*s dance aboon the burn " . 


KcllUftl SiHMff, P-.i.. »S.'S-lSrs. 

Arab to the Palm, I he . 
Bedouin Love-SoHR . . . 

Centennial (^de 

Kins ol'Thule {From Iht GfrmiiH i>/Gitt*t) 

Lute-Player, The 

Ri>se, The 
Song of the Camf 

PiiWisliersi Ilouslnon. Mifllin .V C.v. IVvsInn. 


l.„»villo, N. v.. 1>. rS..... 
Beautiful River, The 
Northern Lights, The . 
Old Village Choir, Tho . 

Athnlfand Ethilda 







l:„y,U,rl, ■-,*)-.«-<- 

IMiilowjjJicr'ii Scal':», '1 h*; .... 785 

Toad's Journal, I he 7«8 


''''■'[■'I'lc'tiiifmafd 7«<' 


Heaven JS'J 


Iin;{l.iii<l, l«17-l«»>. 

Abraham Lincoln 846 


»t/,ll.iri.l, ii!!(-iil4», 

Ode II, I'eatc 4'>4 


liil;j:..i.l, I,. I»<y 

" A»k me ii« more" (/VZ/KWO • • . 'lo 

" iireak, hrwik, break " , . . . *35 

liugle. The (/V/W^i.) 4" 

(,'harxe of Ibc Liiiht lirijjade . . . 4'M 

" Come into the (garden, Maud" • '/' 

" Come not when I am deiuK" (Pritueil) . 150 

iJead Kriciid, 'Ihe 5''' 

iJcalh of Arthur it? 

iJealh of the Old Vcar, 'J'hc . . . ■727 

KjKle, Ilic 447 

Enocli Arden at the Window . . . -223 

Foohiih Virifins, Tlie 7'7 

Korlunc. — Knid's Song '>/> 

Oodiva «44 

Ifero to l^andcr rV' 

" Home they brought her warrior dead " (I'rln- 

crtM) JV) 

In Memoriam, Selection> from . . . 2^4 

Land of Land., The 5>S 

l.ocktley Hall ai4 

Mariana 233 

Miller'n IJaughtcr, The .... 131 

New Year's live 725 

.N'orthern Farmer, The . . . -/>j 

" O swallow, swallow, flying south " i,Pritue$i) 120 

Ketr«rspection {Prhtceif) .... 235 

Sleeping Iteauty, The 124 

Song of the Brook 40^ 

Spnng 379 

Vicu.r Hugo, I o 840 


liiii;'ari'I(IV..llu;ror A.r.). igAt^J^. 

Ihe Ocean 639 


hiii;li/il(lir..lli>.r>/f A. T.), b, VI//1. 

Blackbird 640 


I'latonic 61 


Age of Wisdom, TTie »53 

Church frflte, At the 67 

End of the Play, The ..... 25!! 

Little Billee -874 

Mahogany Tree, The 714 

Mr. Molony's Account r,f the Ball . . 904 

Peg of Liniavaddy 647 

Sorrows of Werlher »75 

White Squall, The 588 


l»le>'/»*lj./al>„ I.. lHjy 

The Sandpiper 446 

I'uUiili.:r«, lI'Mjiil'ion, MllHin «j Co., lUnVio. 


Sc/ilim.l, tr^r''M„ 

The Mitherless Bairn 39 


Angling 621 

Connubial Life '« 

Domestic Birds 432 

Hymn on the Season! J77 

Nightingale Bereaved 441 

Plea for the Animali 704 

Rule Britannia 
Songsters, The . 
8ug Hunt, 'I'hc 
Summer Morning 
War for the Sake of Peace 


r Seen 


l'ul,llslicr» ; H.AJZlilo". Mldllii Ik to., I>'«.t./ri. 


l'.iigl.init, lii-Jh-tHp. 

Ihe Jester • Sermon 

The Three Warnings 
•I'H URLOW, XX»RD {.Edward Hcmtl). 
)-.iizi,.ii.i. i7ai-i»»>. 


Bird, To a 


I'o a Lady befrjre Marriage • 

Cli^irlot'rti, S. C. ly/jtf-tV/J. 


I-ubli>lKr.: v.. ]. Male 4 fi'm. New York. 


lillgUn'l, b. !»>?. 



Oifl.-.i. ,•.'. ■{ , I,, lie.;. 

At Sea . 

Dorothy in the Garret . 
fjld Burying Ground, The 
VagaUjnds, Ihe 

|-ul,li-j"... : lla.|«r ^ l!r.,li,..,.. :.>» y.,rk. 


b'/»t'.n. M.iv.., i.'.iTi.'^i. 
NcwjK^ Beach 

I'ul/liOieri : H'n-ihvm, Mifflin U Co., lloMOO. 


iMigUiul. \, Oil',. 

Cruelty to Animals, Of 



An Angel's Vi«it 



Linen written by otie in the Tower . 


(ifr.'.r. 7ih century B. C. 

Martial Ehigy ' Trans. Tfujmai Campbelt) 


(,.:riri;iiiy. t^''i^-CM. 

Landlady's Daughter The ITraniUlion 0/ 

7. .V. nwiKhf) 

Passage, The (Trant. It. W. Lmg/rllmui 


Friends Deparud 

olii... 1. I>i)',. 

Welcome to " Boz," A . 

Vcxilla Regis ( Tramlnlion o/John M. NeaU) 

I-.iiiffai.'l. ,^5~t'x,4. , . M 

"If women could be fair 

Salem, M.iv%,, iV.iy^-l- 
Latter Rain, The 
Nature .... 
Spirit Land, 'Hie 


fijrtuv^l, 148-rf-iJ^7. 

Tlie Nightingale {Tram. Sir 7. nmurmg) 









riie Nislouviwle ( t\\\m. Sir J, ^toeriof) 

S«,vi«S m>t McAtiiixs 

».»\lle, Oil a . 

lU-, l.wrty Kivtel 

" The sowl's vlark i.vttAite " 

lnl.lHvl, Iv iSuv 

'lUc StMlllllllJi^WhMi Soll^ 


Riviury lu l.o\< .... 
WALTON, IZAAK, i,S« John Chaukhi 

TUf AnsW>"» Wish 

HilV<lVAUl. M.lvv, 1V*-1."^*,4> 

" I will thAt men i>r«,v f v«rywhc« " 

W.vUv I iwt l>uK l«sj\ 

■ My limfs .<re in tt\)' ham) " , 

The l.llcr 


UiwUvl. ■•-•O-IMV 


NUm.\ K life.-!. 

Lovr .\j;.uii»t Lo\"« , . , . 

liwAn.l. .1. i^.-!, 

^Liii's Movulily .... 

l\p.X(ititiil S«o\v 

Wo«nv(«U» l">e»th .... 
W.vnS, ISAAC, 

i>lwUl\,l. lv\'4~lf*J, 

(.YwUp Sons. .\ . . 

lusijsinticiuit K,\i*leiic« 

Summcv KvcnuxS' A ... 

WAioiL vnnviN, 

tiwJ.111.1, iS\'. ii.\\H.r.l * The L»«C4*iJihv iVrt.' 
^' Lhc tliilc Si i' lhi» bo«i»( o' miiw " 

.■vvU,l<ii\ , \ U , l^*.-lS5.•■ 

Tlip Maivoiy of the Hi<art 

Liimeul of Vii^iniu*. 

Vhc Knsslis'lv RoWn . 


,Vm,-ii.,i, i&i~»S;..\ 

OoUlcn RiivsliM. Tha 
OU M,.U. the , 
'IN\ ilijiht .\l S«M 

l^l\J;Uu^^. i,\<>-»sSS. 

Wfrsltiixj; jAC«b 

ll«!.TO.I, OVJ-i^i, 

The Lo\Ht v\i Gixl SuiMitme 

liilKl.m.l, K .,<n, 
in Hmx-*!! 

i.itUe iwn . _ , 

"' ViuWr Hiy window " . 
WllVWKLL, \YU.L1.\M, 
Vhy«c« .... 


Nijjiu .... 


tiarly lVinii\i*e, To ihc . 
HArwst MtHui. To ihi? 


ri,>vi.U'".,\ K, I , toVt-iSfS. 
.\ Slill Oiiv in .Vuuuwn . 


Wo.t UilK. N.V, K iSm. 

The MiKkiixii^Rinl . . , . 


Ililv.iWll, M.m. K \S>V 

AKm'ih .^liloi. I'o Iwr 

Ai.lV-l!, I'l.lVfV o( . , . 

An^fl ,.1 l\iti<-iKf , The . 
l!,iiK>u> Kiicidiie 

lUivUv ,M I'ry 

R-iirlo,'l Uoy. The , . • 
Reneilicite (0»"**4*«* Jii^timfi . 

lVnlenni.U Hvmn . 
K« iM Kleeiion, The 
b^srfWf II. The . . 
Kivmoni. lohn 0. 
H.illcxI., V^«ne 
H,AnuUon l»eAeh . 
lihaKnl , 
Kvteph Saii-jie, To 

Maiul Mnller 

MieliiiS, riie .... 
My l'l.ivin,Ale 

Nesw RMtmeu, Soixgofthc . 
New Knslanil in Winter . 
INilm-'lXve. The 
l\>el'» RewAul, The . 
INimpkin, The . • 
Kelortnev, The . 
Kobin, The .... 
i\lUustiei> ! ll,*ilRhK>n. MilHin .^ 0<v. 11. 


Ne«l*.Mi. N. U.. Tr,n-4Sffr. 
li.. ■ ■ ■ -- 


livl.v.1,1. K 1,^ i .1. New iMe^nvs. La., 184J. 


iwislul. K liUtf. 

The l^ianuwd . 
Wlt.l-\Rn. KMMA. 


l\,«ll«i\,l. M.-„ \S>'.-i,s\" 

lieltVy Viiieon, The ... 

Letvr, The 



0.>lv>ii,t.AV,;"a. N. V. 

To the Sextant of the Meelins House. 

The tMd Setseant .... 
Wn.SON, JOHN {KitStHiy 

Kv«nin^ Cloud, The 

Louis XY. 
Miral>eau . 
,■ CoH»s« . 

Rose and the Oavmtlet. The 

Yeni Sanct* Spiritus (,F»vm ti^ I. ,tfi\) 


INUKX 0/'' AimiOHH. 


Wirill'.K, OKOKOK. 

, „^1,., 

I lovcil a l.'is»i a fair nnc " . 
" l,<ir<l I wlicii tli'*<! glorious liffhls I * 
;.lir|,lii:ril'i> K<:M<lulioii, 'Mie 
' on, OK. JOHN (I'lltr I'ltidar). 

■I,., I, i;<wa;v. 

(.1,1.,.;, 'Jo 

My, To a 

I'ilKririiii anil the I'ciW, 'I Im . 
I'.iz'fl'Scllcr, 'Iho .... 



' l; .,,.,! of Vifjolin IMoorc .... '.>,» 

.■;. Iri,,,n-. .Mi,«a,j ijHfiH-J 

The Old Oaken Ducket 1" 

WfJOI.SKV, SAKAH CHANNINO (,',uia» ( «,jIi,Iki:). 

.S.;w I l.i»,:rp, 0,1,11. 

In the Ml«t 

Lirilc Van 

I'ijl,ll5l,,;rai (/.obcrlfl UfrtliTr*. IJ'At'/ii. 



K'liKj.iiior, of Nature, The . 


(Ii>/lilaii<l Girl of Invertnaid, To the . 


I nri.:r Vision, Tin; . . . 

Iniiniaiiont of lnim',riality 
Kiilcn and KallinK Leaven, The . 


\/M Uivi:, The .... 

Marth . 
Mihori, To 



Kainlx, .... 

" She wa»a |,hanl/jin ol deliKhl" . . ''•/ 

Skylark, To the *f- 

.Sltc[)lc»»nc»» ''^''' 

Tinlcrn Ahhey V" 

ToiiMaint r'iuvcrlure "35 

Wc are Seven H 

WeMiniiistcr liridge "^'^ 

Worlrllmess j'" 


"■'liappV Ufcl'A . ^ • „ ''71 

Vcr«,.« in I'raiM: of Angling . . '.i> 

" You meaner Iwaulici* " ^'5 


I.„«l.i„.|. i'/')-.H>. , 
Karnest Sint, An 
The iJeccivi.d l^vcr nueth 



I lo 

urUCamell) , 

voi;l, kuwaiuj. 


Song of Spring . 

voaNf;, UK. kijwaku. 

Ii;,zr.„|.l. I'^fiy'-i- 


NarciKffa . . . 
FrocntHitnation . . 
Time .... 

An Invective against Love 
Anne Hathaway 
April Violet, An . 
A Voice and Nothing Elue 
liookA .... 
Christian Calling, The 
CVioking and Courting . 
Cra/lle Song 

Diego OnLis in Kldorado 
Dreamer, 'I'll,! . 
Drurnmcr-lioy'n Burial, The 

nly for Liberty 
'anilatioH o/ ICtt- 


,.,. .,,,,1 I'aulinus 

I the ll,yrw:B, The . 

..„ ...n's Valentine, The 
il.,.„.l'» Wish, Ihc 
,;r,;r ihanlhee" 

ll.-l,-n of Kirkc/jnncll . 

n the Well 
entlernan, 'Hie . 

0.i,iilv/o,i,an, loa ('>. K.). 
i,.r..l,M,i,,noflheOldS<.hool, A 
iit'ii/.: Wiifthington, To 
'■ I ,■.. |.,| what I have fell" . 

o'ri.n.lMhc Oead' .'.'.' 


" Marry Ashland, one of my lovers 


Ind,,>n Slimmer 

I,,,1m„ Summer .... 

Ii,l.u,i ■, Oeath, Onan . 

I Church 

an.'l Willie f;re'y . ' . 
" K. >M, "ly memory (rreen " 
K niv John and llie Ahhol of (Janterhury 
K,>,>.„,z'snoSin . . . 
Lady Ann Dolhwell's Lament . 
I,am,:iil of the liorder Widow 
Life and Kurrnily . 
Lillh- Ke,:t .... 
Litile fioldenhair 

l.illle I'us 

l.ove li^hlcns Labor 

e, The 


: lillK lov 

: for r./,mely grace" 
LykeWake Oirge, The . 
M.ikiMi? I'ort .... 
Melr<Ke Abbey. Iiisfiriplion on 
Miibiis', "lluzoen'/ls" 
Mod.-ri. Iloux: that J.iik built, The 
Miimm'/ at llelzrjni'ft Kxhibition, Am 
Mv l.-,ve .... 
'* My Ixjve in her attire" . 
My sv/,.et Sweeting . 
.Nobly Dwn. Thc(K. S. H.) 
N„rvr/ Song . 
Ol.l ';a,:lir. Lullaby 
fyl.l :,..b«,lho,is..., The . 
<ihi S..bool I'ni.ishment 
r*|.| S,;.i|,orl, An 
'>ri;'iii oflbeOpal 
Ori.liaii.,, The . 
I'olal/,, Ihe .... 
I'raxil,;le> . 
Ouiet from fjod . 

II, Tlie . ' . 

Siecc of li,dgrade . 
Slt'l,, A . 

Sk;ii,:r lielle, Our . 
Sk>l,:lon, To a . 
SkulU, On some 
Snails, l<cmonstranr.e 
Sfflnning-Whcel, The 

Ih the 
cs to the . 

ng wncei, 

/Kircl, I, 
Summer Oays 
Swell's Solilwiuy 
" There sll,.n«: in he.l 
" They *re dear fish u, rne 
Threninly . , . . 





Topside Galah giS 

v;""|>. , 9.7 

Unsatisfactory 157 

Umil Death 159 

Useful Plow, The 496 

Vicar of Kray, The S57 

When Eve Ijrought woe .... S7S 

" When I am dead " 

" When I think on the happy days 

" When shall we all meet again ?'' 

White Rose, The .... 

" Why, lovely charmer " . 

Wife to her Husband, The . 

*' Will you love me when 1 'in old " 


Alfrfd Cro^vgitiU 
B,i>0' Cormvall . 
Bttrry Gmy 
Ethit Lynn . 
Fitther Proul . 
FIcrtnct Percy 
Cttr»-L(KV Rhymer 
Grace Greenwood , 

/fo-Mini GlymioH . 
yohn Chalkhill . 
Kit North . 
Maria del Occidente 
lilarian Douglas . 
Miles O' Reilly . 
OrfheHS C. Kerr . 
Lhi'eii Meredith . 
Peter Pindar 
Susan Ci'olidge . 
Thomas Ingoidsbyt Esg. 


Rdl'.l u I' i;ai;i;\ COFKIN. 
ETllI I 1\ 1 1 1. 1 I' HKKKS. 
FRAN' i -- M \llo\V. 
El.l,- Nil Ml \kl.KS ALLF.N. 

Er.K\ 1 .1 K 111 I or. 

SAK Ml I \M I irmNCO'iT. 

HKI r\ III \ 1 lACKSON. 
ANNIl^' 11, (IK I IN 
CllAKI Is C. II \1 PINK 
Ri>l;i K r II I \ i;\ \ 1 w M.L, 
R(iiii:i; I 1:1 I w I R 1 \ rroN. 

DR. liMl.X W OLCUTl. 



£] -a 



''f^ H I-; present enlarged edition of t lie " Library of Poetry and Song" hag 
liceii projected with a view of making the collection more perfect, 
both ill the choice of iioems and the variety of sources from which they are 
derived. Within a very few years past several names of eminence have been 
added to the list of poets in our language, and every reader would expect to 
find samples of their verse in an anthology like this, to say nothing of the air 
of fresiuiesK which these would give. 

That tlu^ demand for compilations of this character is genuine and very 
general is sufficiently demonstrated by the appearance, since the first edition 
of this was published, of Emerson's " Parnassus" and Whittier's " Songs of 
Three Centuries." These, however, do not seem to have suiipjanted liana's 
"■ Household Book of Poetry," which still retains its popularity. It often hap- 
pens that the same household contains several of these publications. 

The first edition has proved, commercially speaking, one of the most success- 
ful |)ubiications of the day ; and if the c-ompilation in its present shape should 
meet with the same favor, the Publisliers, it seems to me, can ask no more. 

When 1 saw tliat Mr. Emerson had omitted to include any of his own 
poems in the collection entitled '• Parnassus," I doubted, for a while, whether 
I ought not to have jiracticeil the same reserve. Vet when I considered that 

h ^ ' — d^ 


the omisiiioii on his part was so fur a defect, and that there is not a reader of 

his vohuiie who would not have been better jik^ased to jiossess several of lii> 

poems ahmg with the otliei's, I 1)eeaine better satisfied witli what I had done, 

and allowed such of my poems as I had inehided to remain. In one respeet, 

at least, the present compilation will have the advantage over Mr. Emerson's, 

namely, that it contains several of the poems with which he has ciiricheil lur 


New York, July, 1876. 

^ S 

^ J] 

&- ~ ^ 

e .^ 




s a 




I.SUri'OSE it is not necessary to givi; a reason for adding anotlier to tlie collections 
of this nature, already in print. They abound in every language, fur the sinijile 
reason that there is a demand fur them. German literature, prolilic as it is in vers(;, 
has many of them, and some of them compiled by distinguished authors. 'J'he parlor 
tiiblo and the winter fireside reipiire a book which, when one is in the humor for 
reading poetry and knows not what author to take up, will sujiply exactly what he 

I Iiave known persons ulm frankly said that they took no pleasure in reading 
piiili T, and perhaps the inindier nl' those who make this adruission would be greater 
were it ncit for the fear of ai)pearing singular. But to the great mass of mankind 
liijctry is really a delight and a refreshment. To many, perhaps to most, it is unt 
ifipiisite tliat it should bo of the highest degree of merit. Xur, although it bo true 
that the poems which are most famous and most highly prized are works of con- 
siilcrablc length, can it be saiil that thi' pleasure they give is in any degree proptu-- 
liiiHute Id the extent of their plan. It seems to me that it is only poerus of a 
ninilcrate length, or else portions of the greater works to wdiich I refer, that pro- 
duce tlie effect upon the mind and heart which make the charm of this kind of 
writing, 'i'he proper office of poetry, in filling the mind with delightful images and 
awakiuiing the gentler emotions, is not accomi)lished on a first and rapid jierusal, 
but re(i\iires that tlii! words should lie dwelt upon until they become in a certain 
sense our own, and arc^ adopfi'd as the utterance of our own minds. A collection 
such as this is intended to 1)0 furni.shes for this purpose portions of the Ijcst Eng- 
lish verso suited to any oi' thi' varying moods of its readers. 

Such a work also, if suliiciently extensive, gives the reader an opportunity of com- 
]iaring the poetic literature of one period with that of another; of noting the fluctu- 
ations of taste, and how the poetic forms which are in fashion iluring one age are 
laid aside in the next; of observing the changes which take place in our language, 
and the sentiments which at different periods challengo the public apjinibation. 
Specimens of the poetry of different centuries presented in this wa}' show how the 
great stream of humc'in thought in its poetic form eddies now to the right and now 
to the left, wearing away its banks first on one side and then on the other. .Some 
author of more than common faculties and more than common boldness catches the 
pulilic attention, and immediately ho has a crowd of followers who form their taste 
on his and seek to divide willi him the jiraisi;. Thus Cowley, with his nndeniable 



L;ciiius, was tho lic;ul of a miiiionni.s class wlio made poetry consist iu lar-l'etchcj con- 
t'fils, ideas oddly brought tugutlici', and (niaiiit turns of thought. Pope, following close 
upon l)ryd(^n, and learning nnicli from him, was the founder of a school of longer 
duration, which found its models in ISoilcau and other poets of the reign of Louis 
the Fourteimth, — a school in which the wit predominated over the poctrj^, — a school 
marked hy striking oppositions of thought, frequent happinesses of expression, and a 
caielully liahuieed modulation, — numbers pleasing at first, but in tho end fiitiguing. 
As this school degenerated the wit ahnost disappeared, but there was no new infu- 
siiui of poetry iu its place. When Scott gave the public the Lai/ of the Last Jfiii- 
.s7rc/, and other poems, which certainly, considered as mere narratives, are the best ve 
have, carrying tho reader forward without weariness and with an interest which tlie 
author never allows to suliside, a crowd of imitators pressed after him, the greater 
|iait of whom are no longer read. "Wordsworth hail, and still has, his school; the 
stamp of his example is visible on the writings of all the poets of the present dav. 
Even Byron showed himself, in the third canto of (Jhilde Harold, to be one of 
his disciples, though he tiercely resented being called so. The same poet did not 
disdain to learn of Scott in composing his narrative poems, such as the Bride of Ahij- 
dos and the Giaour, though he could never tell a story iu verse without occasional 
tediousness. In our day the style of writing adopted by eminent living poets is often 
seen reflected in the verses of their younger contemporaries, — sometimes with an 
eflect like that of a face belield in a tarnished mirror. Thus it is that poets are 
formed by their inlluence on one another; the greatest of them are more or less 
indebted fiu' what they are to their predecessors and their contemporaries. 

While speaking of these changes in the public taste, 1 am tempted to caution tho 
reader the mistake often made of estimating the merit of one poet by the tno 
easy ]irocess of comparing hiin with another. The varieties of poetic excellence are 
as great as the varieties of beauty in flowers or iu the female face. There is no poet, 
indeed no author in any departnuMit of literature, who can be taken as a standard in 
judging of others; the true standard is an ideal one, and even this is not the same 
in all men's minds. One delights in grace, another in strength ; one in a fiery vehe- 
mence ami enthusiasm on tho surface, another in majestic repose and the expre,ssion 
of fooling too deep to be noisy ; one loves simple and obvious images strikingly em- 
]iloyod, or familiar thoughts placed in a new light, another is satisfied only with nov- 
elties of thought and expression, with >incommon illustrations and images far sought. 
It is certain that eaidi of these modes of treating a subject may have its peculiar 
merit, and that it is absurd to recjuire of those whose genius inclines them to one 
that they should adopt its opposite, or to sot one down as inferior to another be- 
cause he is not of tho isame class. As well, in looking through an astronomer's 
telescope at tliat beautiful phonomonon, a doid)Ie star, in which the twin flames are 
one of a roseate and the other of a golden tint, might we quarrel with either of 
them because it is not colored like its fellow. Some of tho comparisons made by 
critics between one poet and another are scarcely less jirepostorous than would be 
a comparison between a river and a mountain. 

The compiler of this collection has gone as far back as to the author who may 

le ^ ^ 




proporJy be called the father of En,i,'lish jioetiT, anil who wroto while our luiif^niaj^e 
was like the lion in Milton's account of the (■n'ation, when rising' from tlie earth at 
tlio Divine connnanil and 

" . . . . pawin;; to get IVfo 
His liiiiilcr parts," — 

lor it was still clogged by the iinassinjilated ])ortinn-; nf (he French tongue, to wii!:^h 
ill i)art is owed its origin. These were to be thrown aside in after years. 'J'lic vers' 
liralinn had also one characteristic of French vei'so which was soon after Chaucer's 
tiiue laid aside, — the mute or final e had in his lines the value of a syllalile by 
itself, especially when the next word began with a consonant. liut though these 
lieculiarities somewhat embarrass the reader, he still finds in the writings of the old 
]ioet a fund of the good old English of the Saxon fireside, which makes them worthy 
to be studied were it only to strengthen our hold on our language, lie delighted in 
describing natural objects which still retained their Sa.xou names, and this he did with 
great beauty and sweetness. In the sentiments also the critics ascribe to him a de- 
gree of delicacy which one could .scarcely have looked for in the age in which he wrote, 
tiiough at other times he avails himself of the license then allowed. There is no 
majesty, no stately march of numbei-s, in Ids poetry, still less is there of lire, rapidity, 
or conciseness ; the French and Italian narrative poets from whom he learned his 
art wriite as if the people of their time had nothing to d(j but to attend to long sto- 
ries, and Chaucer, who translated from the French the lioinaiiut of the Jiose, though 
a .i;reater poet than any of those whom he took for his models, made small improve- 
niinit upon them in this respect. His Troylus and Cr//si'i/ilc, witii but little action 
and incident, is as long as either of the epics of Homer. The Canterbury y'ale.t, 
Chaucer's best things, have less of this defect; but even there the narrative is over- 
iniiiiite, and the personages, as Taine, the F'rench critic, remarks, although they t:ilk 
Well, talk too much. The taste for this prolixity in narratives and convei-sations Ijad 
a long duration in Fugiish poetry, since we find the same tcdiousuess, to call it by 
its true name, in Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis and his Liia-eee, written more 
than two hiiiidre(l years jati'r. Yet in the mean time the old popular ballads of ICng 
lanil and Scotland had been composed, in which the imidents follow each other in 
ipiiek succession, and the briefest possible speeches are uttered by the personages. 
The scholars and court poets doubtless disdained to learn anytldng of these poets of 
the people, and the Davideis of Cowley, wdio lived three hundreil years after Chaiici'r, 
is as remarkable for the sluggish progress of the story and the teiliousness of tlie 
harangues as for any other characteristics. 

JJetween the time of Chaucer and that of Sidney and Spenser we liiid liltl" in the 
poetic literature of our language to detain our attention, i'hat age produced many 
obscure versifiers, and metrical romances continued to be written after the fashion of 
the French and Italian poets, wdiom Chaucer acknowledgeil as his masters. During 
this period appeared Skeltcni, the poet and jester, whose sjiecial talent was facility in 
ihyniing, who rhymed as if he could not help it, — as if he had only to put pen to 
papin-, iuiil the words leaped of their own accord into regular measure with an inev- 
itable jingle at the en<lings. Meantime our language was undergoing a pr(jce.s.s 



[fi a 

^-^ lU ISTliUDUCTlON. ^ 

which gradually separated the nobler parts from the dross, rejecting the French ad- 
ditions for which there was no occasion, or which could not easily be made to take 
upon themsch'es the familiar forn)s of our tonyue. The prosody of English became 
also fixed iu that period ; the linal <> whicli so perplexes the modern reader in Chau- 
cer's vei'se was no longer permitted to ligure as a distinct syllable. The poets, how- 
ever, still allowed themselves the liberty of sometimes making, after the French man- 
ner, two syllables of the terminations tioii and ion, so that nation became a word of 
three syllables ami opinion a wonl of four. Tlie Sonnets of Sidney, written on the 
Italian model, have all the grace and ingenuity of those of Petrarch. In the Faerie 
Qiieene of Spenser it seems to me that we find the English language, so far as the 
purposes of poetry require, iu a degree of }ierfection beyond which it has not been 
siuee carrietl, anil, 1 suppose, never will be. A vast assemblage of poetic endowments 
contributed to the composition of this poem, yet I think it would not be easy to name 
one of the same length, and the work of a geuius equally great, in any language, 
which more fatigues the reader in a steady fronw beginning to end. In it we 
ha\-o an invention ever awake, active, ami apparently inexhaustible ; an affluence of 
imagery grand, beautiful, or magnilicent, as the subject may require; wise observa- 
tions on human life steeped in a poetic coloring, and not without touches of pathos ; 
a wonderful luastery of versification, and the aptest forms of expression. We read 
at first with admiration, yet to this erelong succeeds a sense of satiety, and we lay 
down the book, not unwilling, however, after an interval, to take it up witli renewed 
admiration. I once heard an eminent poet say that he thought the second part of 
tlu' Faerie Queene inferior to the first ; yet 1 am inclined to ascribe the remark rather 
to a falling oif iu the attention of the reader than iu the merit of the work. A jioet, 
luiwever, would be more likely to persevere to the end than any other reader, since 
in e\ery staii/a he would meet with some lesson in his art. 

In that fortunate age of English literature arose a greater than Spi>uscr. Let me 
only say of Shakespeare, that in his dramas, amid certain faults imputable to the 
taste of the English public, there is to be found every conceivable kind of poetic 
excellenee. At tlie same time and immediately after him flourished a group of dra- 
matic iiocis who drew their inspiration from nature and wrote with manly vigor, 
t lue would naturally suppose that their example, along with the more illustrious 
ones of Spenser and Shakespeare, would influence and form the taste of the succeed- 
ing ago ; but almost before tliey had ceased to claim the attention of the public, and 
while the eminent divines, Barrow, Jeremy Taylor, and others, wrote nobly in jirose 
with a geiuiine eloi]uenee and a fervor scarcely less than poetic, appeared the school 
of writers iu verse whom Jolinson, by a phrase the propriety of which has been dis- 
puted, calls the metaphysical poets, — a class of wits whose whole aim was to extort 
admiration by ingenious conceits, thouglits of such unexpectedness and singularity 
that one womlered how they could ever conio into the mind of the author. For what 
they regarded as poetic clfect they depended, not upon the sense of beauty or grand- 
eur, not upon depth or earnestness of feeling, but simply upon surprise at (juaiut 
and strange resemblances, contrasts, ai^l combinations of ideas. These were dcli\- 
ered for the most part in rugged diction, and in numbers so harsh as to be almost 

1 gi 


[f] — a 


unmanageable by the reader. Cowley, a man of real genius, and of a more musical 
versification than liis fellows, was the most distinguished example of this school. 
Milton, born a little before Cowley, and like him an eminent poet in his teens, is 
almost the only instance of escape from the infection of thi.s vicious style ; his genius 
w;is of too robust a mold for such petty employments, anil he would have made, if 
lie had condescended to them, as ill a figure as his own Samson on the stage of a 
mountebank. Dryden himself, in some of his earlier poems, appears as a pupil of 
this school ; but ho soon outgrew — in great part, at least — the false taste of the 
time, and set an example of a nobler treatment of poetic subjects. 

Yet though the genius of Dryden reacted against this perversion of tiie art of verse,. 
it had not the power to raise the poetry of our language to the height which it occu- 
pird in the Elizabethan age. Within a limited range lie was a true poet; his imagi- 
nation was far from fertile, nor had he much skill in awakening emotion, but he 
(•nil Id treat certain subjects magnificently in verse, and often where his imagination 
fails him he is sustained by tbe vigor of his understanding and the largeness of his 
kiiiiwledge. He gave an example of versification in the heroic couplet, which haa 
cniiimanded the admiration of succeeding poets down to our time, — a versification 
manly, majestic, and of varied modulation, of which Pope took only a certain part as 
the model of his own, and, contracting its range and reducing it to more regular 
]jause.s, mailo it at first appear more musical to the reader, but in the end fatigued 
him by its monotony. Dryden drew scarcely a single image from his own observa- 
tion of external nature ; and Pope, though less insensible than he to natural b(;auty, 
was still merely the poet of the drawing-room. Yet he is the author of more haj)py 
lines, which have passed into the connnon speech and are quoted as proverbial say- 
ings, tlian any author we have save Shakespeare ; and, whatever may be said in his 
dispraise, he is likely to be quoted as long as the English is a living language. The 
footjirints of Pojie are not those of a giant, but ho has left them scattered all over 
the field of our literature, although the fashion of writing like him lias wholly passed 

Certain farulties of the poetic mind seem to have slumbered from the time of 
]\Iilton to that of TJiomson, who showed the literarj' world of Great Britain, to its 
astonishment, what a profusion of materials for poetry Nature offers to him who 
directly consults her instead of taking his images at second-hand. Thomson's blank 
verse, however, is often swollen and bladdery to a jiainful degree. He seems to have 
imagined, like many other writers of his time, that blank verse oould not su[i])ort 
itself without the aid of a stilted phraseology ; for that fine poem of his, in the 
Spenserian stanza, the Castle of Indolence, shows that when he wrote in rhyme he- 
did not think it necessary to depart from a natural style. 

^VordswoI•th is generally spoken of as one who gave to our litr^rature that imiiulse 
which brought the poets back from the capricious forms of expression in vogue before 
his time to a certain fearless simplicity ; for it must be acknowledged that until he 
arose there was scarce any English poet who did not seem in some degree to labor under 
the apprehension of becoming too simple and natural, — to imagine that a certain pomp 
of words is necessary to elevate the stj'le and make tliat grand and noble which in 


[0 a 


its iliroct expression woiiM be homely and trivial. Yet the poetry of Wordsworth 
was but the eonsunmintioii of a temloncy ivlreiuly existing and active. Cowpor had 
ah-eaily felt it in writiiii>- his Tad; and in his longer rhymed poems had not only at- 
tempted n freer veKilication than that of I'ope, Init had clothed his thoughts in the 
manly English of the better age of onr poeti-y. Percy's IMitjiies had accustouu'il 
Knglish roadei's to pneeive tlie extreme beauty of tlie old ballads in their absolute 
simiilicity, and shown liow much superior these were to such productions as Percy's 
own llerntit of Warkimrth anil troldsmith's Bdwiii and Aiiijelina, in their feeble ele 
gauce. Burns's inimitable Scottish poems — his English versos are tumid and woivlv 
— had taught the same lesson. We may infer that the genius of Woixlswortli was 
in a groat degree intluenced by these, just as he in his turn contributed to form tiie 
t^isto of those who wrote after him. It was long, however, before ho reached the 
eminence which he now holds in the estinuxtion of tho litemvy world. His Lyrlml 
Ba/lmls, published about the close of the last century, were at first little read, and 
of those who liked them theiv wero few who wero not afraid to express their admi- 
ration. Yet his fame has slowly climbed from st«g6 to stage until now his influence 
is perceived in all the English poetry of the day. If this were tho place to 
his poetry, 1 should say, of his more stately poems in blank verse, that they often 
lack compression, — that tho thought sutfei's by too great expansion. Wordsworth 
was unnecessarily afwid of being epigrammatic. He abhorred what is called a point 
as much as Dennis is said to have abhorred a pun. Yet I must own that even his 
most ditl'use amplifications have in them a certain grandeur that fills the mind. 

At a somewhat later period arose tho poet Keats, who wrote in a manner which 
carried the ivader back to the time when those charming passages of lyrical enthu- 
siasm were produced which we occasionally find in the (ilays of Shakespeare, in those 
of Beaumont and Fletcher, and in Milton's Comiis. Tho verses of Keats are occa- 
sionally disfigured, especially in his jEiKlijmion, by a flatness almost childish, but in 
the finer passages they clothe tho thonght in the richest inuvgory and in words each 
of which is a poem. Lowell has justly called Keats " ovei'-languaged," but there is 
scarce a word that wo should bo willing to part with in his Ode to the yi<>/itiii;/ale, 
ami that on a (?recia>i r'>-», and the same thing may lie said of the greater part of 
his J/v/'erioii. His poems were ridiculed in tho Edinburgh Keviow, but they sur- 
vived the ridicule, and now, fifty years after their first publication, the poetrj- of the 
present day, by certain resemblances of manner, testifies to the admiration with which 
ho is still read. 

The genius of Byron was of a more vigoi\nis mold than that of Keats ; but not- 
withstiinding his great popularity and the number of his imitators at one time, he 
made a less permanent impression on the character of English poetry. His misan- 
thropy and gloom, his scoffing vein, ami the fieiveness of his animosities, after tho 
fii-st glow of admiration was over, had a repellent otTeet upon readei's, and made them 
turn to more cheerful strains. Moore had in his time nuvny iniitatoi's, but all his 
g'ayety, his brilliant fancy, his soniewhat feminine graces, ami the elaborate music 
of his numbei-s, have not savetl him from tho fate of being imitated no more. Cole- 
ridge and Southey were of the siuue school with Woixlsworth, and only added to the 

^ ^ e^ 





cflect of \im t'xaniiile upon our literatim;. Colcridgo Lb the autlior of tlic two iiioxt 
pr;rf(;(;t jjonticiil traimlutiojiB whicli our larigiiagi; in liis day couW boawt, tliow; of 
.Scliilicr'H I'icml'indni ami JJealli, nf IValleniitein, in wliicli thf; Eii^li«h v.nt; fali« in no 
rf'Sjioot wliort of iIkj original Ocnnan. Houtliey diviiloH with fSwjtt the h'Jiior of 
writinjj the fir»t lonj; narrative ]>oi;inH in our lanj/ua;.;'; whicli can he read without 
occasional weari ihmh. 

Of the later poet;<, educated in \tiat hy the yeueration of author/) which produced 
W'ordrtworth and JJyroii aiicl in j)ai-t by each other, yet pOHSCHwing their individual 
pecidiarilien, I HJiould perhaps Hpeak with more reserve. The number of thow; who 
are attempting; to win a name in thiw walk of liti.-rature is gn^t, and Heveml of them 
have already gained, and through many years held, the public favor. To some of 
tliiiij will be assigned an enduring station among the eminent of their chiHH. 

There are two tendencies by which the s<;eker« after jtoetic fame in our day an- 
a|>t to be misled, through both the exanjple of others and the applause of critics. 
One of these in the desire to cxtoit admiration by striking novelties of expression ; 
and tlie other, the ambition to distinguish thenisi.dves by subtilties of thought, 
renioU; from the common apprehension. 

With regard to thi; first of these I have only to say what has been often said bi;- 
I'on-, that, however favorable may Ije the idea which this luxuriance of poetic imagery 
and of epithet at first gives us of the author's talent, our admiration s/jon exhausts 
itself. We feel that the thouglit mov<;s heavily under its load of garments, some 
of whicli perhaps strike us as tawdry and olhera a.-s ill-fitting, and we lay down the 
book to take it up no more. 

The other mistake, if I may so call it, deserves more attention, since we find abh: 
critics speaking with high praise of passages in the poetry of the day to which the 
general reader is jiu/zled to attach a meaning. This is often the cas^j wlien tiie words 
themselves seem sim|ile enough, and keep within the range of the Saxon or house- 
jiold element of our language. The obscurity lies sometimes in the jihrase itself, and 
sometimes in the recondite or remote; allusion. I will not say that certain minds are 
not afl'ected by this, as others are by verses in ])iuiner Knglish. To the few it may 
lie genuine poetry, although it may be a riddle to the mass of ri^a'lers. I remember 
reading somewhere of a mathematician who was affected with a sense of sublimity by 
the ha|)py solution of an algebraical or geometrical jiroblem, and I have been assured 
by one who devoted liinjself to the science of mathematics that the phenomenon is no 
unconimon one. Let us beware, therefore, of assigning too narrow limits U} the causes 
whiidi produce the politic exaltation of mind. The genius of those who write in this 
manner may be freely acknowledged, I)ut they do not write for mankind at large. 

'I'o me it .seerus that one of the most important requisites for a great jxjet is a lu- 
luiiions style. The elements of poetry lie in natural objects, in the vicissitudes of 
hiinian life, in the emotions of the human heart, and the relations of man to man. lie 
who can present them in combinations and lights which at once affect the mind with 
a deep sense of their truth and beauty is the poet for liis own age ami the ages that 
succeed it. It is no disitaragement either to his skill or his power that he finds them 
n«ir at hand ; the nearer they lie to the common track of the human intelligence, 


^ a 


the more certain is lie of tlie sympathy of his own generation, and of those which 
sliall come after him. The metaphysician, the subtile thinker, the dealer in abstruse 
sjieculations, whatever his skill in versification, misapplies it when he abandons the 
more convenient form of prose and perplexes himself with the attempt to exjiress 
his iileas in poetic numbers. 

]>et me say for the poets of the present day, tliat in one important respect they 
have profited by the example of their immediate predecessors; they have learned to 
go directly to nature for their imagery, instead of taking it from what had once lieen 
regarded as the common stock of the guild of poets. I have often had occasion to 
verify this remark with no less delight than surprise on meeting in recent verse new 
images in their untarnished luster, like coins fresh from the mint, unworn and unsoilod 
by jiassing from pocket to pocket. It is curious, also, to observe how a certain s(!t 
of hackneyed phrases, which Leigh Hunt, I believe, was the first to ridicule, and 
which were once used for the convenience of rounding out a line or supplying a 
rhyme, have disapjieared from our poetry, and how our blank verse in the hands of 
the most popular writers has dropped its stiff Latinisms and all the awkward distor- 
tions resorted to by those who thought that by putting a sentence out of its proper 
shape they were writing like Milton. 

I have now brought this brief survey of the jirogress of our poetry ilown to the 
present time, and refer the reader, for samples of it in tlic dillerr iit stages of its exist- 
ence, to those which are set before him in this vohime. 

Such is the wide range of English verse, and such the abundance of tlie 
materials, tljat a compilation of this kind must be like a buucjuet gathered from 
the fields in June, when hundreils of flowers will be left in unvisited spots, as 
beautiful as those which have been taken. It may happen, therefore, that many 
who have learned to delight in some particular poem will turn these pages, as they 
might those of other collections, without finding their favorite. Nor should it be 
matter of surprise, considering the multitude of authors from whom the compilation 
is made, if it be found that some are overlooked, especially the more recent, of equal 
merit with many whose poems appear in these pages. It may happen, also, that 
the compiler, in consequence of some particular association, has been sensible of a 
beauty and a power of awakening emotions and recalling images in certain poems 
which other readers will fail to perceive. It should be considered, moreover, that in 
poetry, as in painting, different artists have different modes of presenting their con- 
ceptions, each of which may possess its peculiar merit, yet those whose taste is forincMJ 
by contemplating the productions of one class take little pleasure in any otlui'. 
Crabb Robinson relates that Wordsworth once admitted to him that he did m t 
much admire contemporary poetry, not because of its want of poetic merit, but 
liecause he had been accustomed to poetry of a different sort, and added that but 
for this ho might have read it with pleasure. I quote from memory. It is to 1 ic 
hoped that every reader of this collection, however he may have been trained, will 
find in the great variety of its contents something conformable to his taste. 







fr^lA. <VivM^ /'oo, ; ^ j^ ■ TM.wYVi^ WtaJUL 

0iKaMM< -•iM/icLvAtcL - — CrU't" oft, 'lOMh VL^^UAM-kiJi 

^ ^^ -51 





Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 

Pliilip, my king ! 
For round thee the purple shadow lies 
Of babyhood's royal dignities. 
Lay on my neck thy tiny liand 

With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; 
I am thine Esther, to command 

Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, 
Philip, my king ! 

0, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 

Philip, my king ! 
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing. 
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 

Sittest love-gloriiied ! — Rule kindly, 
Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ; 

For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my king ! 

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy Ijrow, 

Philip, my king ! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
May rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers. 

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer, 
Let me beliold thee in future years ! 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my king ; — 

A wTeath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Pliilip, my king ! 
Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way 
Thorny, and cmel, and cold, and gi-ay ; 
Rebels within thee and foes without 

Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout. 

As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 
" Philip, the king!" 



Wh.1T is the little one thinking about ? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt ; 
Unwritten histoi-y ! 
Unfathomed mystery ! 
Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nodii, andwiuks, 
As if his liead were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphin.x ! 
Warped by colic, and wet by tears. 
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears. 
Our little nephew will lose two years ; 
And he '11 never know 
Where the summers go ; 
He need not laugh, for he '11 find it so. 

Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Wlio can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of day ? 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony ; 
Of the unknown sea that reels and roUs, 
Specked with the barks of little souls, — 
Barks that were launched on the other side. 
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! 

What does he think of his mother's eyes ? 
What does he think of his mother's hair? 

What of the cradle-roof, that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 

AVhat does he think of his mother's breast. 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight. 

Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, 
With a tenderness she can never tell. 

Though she mui-mur the words 

Of all the birds, — 
Words she has learned to murmur well ? 

Now he thinks he '11 go to sleep ! 

I can see the shadow creep 






Over his eyes in soft eclipse, 
Over liis brow and over his lips, 
Out tohislittlo tiu^'ci-tips! 
Softly sinking, down he goes! 
Down ho goes ! ilown ho goes ! 
See ! ho 's hushed in sweet repose. 



Naked on parents' knees, a new-born child, 
Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled : 
So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep, 
Tluni then niayst smile wliile all annuul the* 


.1 Jones. 



Cmekks as soft as .Inly peaches ; 
l.ips whose ilewy scarlet teaches 
Topjiies paleness ; round lai-ge eyes 
Ever great with new surprise ; 
Minutes tilled with shadeless gladness ; 
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; 
Happy smili'S and wailing cries ; 
Crows, and laughs, and tearful eyes ; 
Lights and shadows, swifter born 
Thau on wind-swept autun\n corn ; 
Ever some new tiny notion. 
Making every limb all motion ; 
Catehings \ip of legs and arms ; 
Tluowings Imck and small alarms ; 
Clutehing lingei-s ; .straightening jerks ; 
Twining feet whoso each toe works ; 
Kickings up and stmining risings ; 
Jlother's ever new surprisings ; 
Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under ; 
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
That have moi-e of love than lorings ; 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Airhness that we ]>rize such sinning ; 
Breakings diiv of plates and glasses ; 
Craspings small at all that pas-ses ; 
PulUngs ofl" of all that "s able 
To be caught from tray or t«ble ; 
Silences, — small meditations 
Peep as thoughts of caivs for nations ; 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tong\ie that nothing teaches ; 
All the thoughts of pos.sessing 
Must lie wooed to light by guessing : 
Slumliers, — such .sweet angel-.seeniings 
That we 'd ever have such dreamings : 

Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
Anil we 'd always have thee waking ; 
Wealth for which we know no measure ; 
ricasnre high above all pleasure ; 
(Uadness brimming over gladness ; 
•loy in care ; delight in sadness ; 
Loveliness beyond completeness ; 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; 
Beauty all that beauty may bo ; — 
That 's May Bennett ; that's my baby. 

William C. Bennett. 


1 M.WK got a ncw-born si.ster ; 

1 was nigh the lirst that kissed her. 

When the nursing-woman brought lier 

To papa, his infant daiiglitcr. 

How papa's dear eyes did gfisten ! — 

She will shortly be to christen ; 

Ami pajia has made the otVer, 

1 shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her, — 

Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? 

Ann and Mary, they're too common; 

.loan 's too formal for a woman ; 

.lane 's a prettier name beside ; 

But we had a .Tane that died. 

They would say, if 't was Rebecca, 

That she was a little Quaker. 

Edith 's pretty, but that looks 

Better in old English books ; 

ICllen "s left otf long ago ; 

Blanche is out of fashion now. 

Kone that 1 have named as yet 

Arc so good as ilargai-et. 

Emily is neat and line ; 

What do you think of Caroline ? 

How I 'm puzzled and perple.xed 

Wliat to choose or think of next ! 

1 am in a little fever 

Lest the i.auie that I should give her 

Should disgnice her or defame her ; — 

1 will leave i>aivv to name her. 


WnEUE did you come from, baby deai- 1 
Out of the evertncliere into he^re. 

Whei-e did you get your eyes so blue ? 
Out of the si-;/ as I came through. 

Wheiv did you get that little tear ? 
I found it waiting u-ken I got hen: 





What makes your forehead so smooth anJ high i 
A soft hand stroked it as I went hij. 

What makes your cheek like a wann white rose i 
/ saiu something better than any one knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear ? 
God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

Wliero did you get those arms and hands ! 
Love made itself into hooks and banils. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things i 
Fmin the sit/itc bnj: us the cherubs' wings. 

How did they all come to be you ? 
>!od thought about me, and so I grew. 

I'ut how did you come to us, you dear ? 
dud thought about you, and so I am liere. 

gi--ok(;e macdonald. 


Two little feet, so small that both may nestle 

In one caressing hand, — 
Two tender feet upon the untried boriler 

Of life's mysterious land. 

Dhnpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blos- 

In April's fragrant days. 
How can they walk among the briery tangles, 

Edging the world's rough ways ? 

These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future. 

Must bear a mother's load ; 
Alas ! since Woman has the heaviest burden. 

And walks the harder road. 

Love, for a while, will make the path before them 
All dainty, smooth, and fair, — 

Will cull away the brambles, letting only 
The roses blossom there. 

I'ut when the mother's watchful eyes are .shrouded 

Away from sight of men. 
And these dear feet are left without her guiding, 

Who shall direct them then ? 

How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded, 

Poor little untaught feet ! 
Into what dreary mazes will they wander, 

What dangers will they meet ? 

Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness 
Of Sorrow's tearful shades ? 

Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty, 
Whose sunlight never fades ? 

WiU they go toiling up Ambition's summit, 

The common world above ? 
Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, 

Walk side by side with Love ? 

Some feet there be which walk LU'e's tiack 

Whiidi find but pleasant ways : 
Some hearts there be to which this life is only 

A round of hapjiy days. 

But these are few. Far more there are who 

Without a hope or friend, — 
Who find their journey full of pains and losses, 

And long to reach the end. 

How shall it be with her, the tender stranger, 

Fair-faced and gentle-eyed, 
Before whose unstained feet the world's rude 

Sti-etches so fair and wide ? 

Ah ! who may read the future ? For our darling 
We crave all blessings .sweet. 

And pray that He who feeds the crj'ing ravens 
Will guide the baby's feet. 



Si.KEr, little baby of mine, 
Night and th« darkness are near. 
But .Icsus looks down 
Through the shadows that fromi, 
And baby has nothing to fear. 

Shut, little sleepy blue eyes ; 

Dear little head, be at rest ; 

Jesus, like you. 

Was a baby once, too, 

And slept on his own mother's breast. 

Sleep, little baby of mine. 

Soft on your pillow so white ; 

Jesus is here 

To watch over you, dear. 

And nothing can harm you to-night. 

0, little darling of mine, 

MTiat can you know of the bliss, 

The comfort I keeji, 

Awake and asleep. 

Because I am c?ertain of this ? 







Kkk lust ywu's union liinl loft tho sky 
A liiixllinjj soiif;lit nij Imliiui lU'st, 

Ami I'nUlod, oh ! so loviujjly, 
llor tiuY \viuj;s vipoii my bivast. 

Wmii nioni till o\oiiiiij;'s nui\>lo tingp, 
111 wiiisoino Uoli'UviSuoss slip lips ; 

Two ivso-ioiivos, with ii silkpu I'liiij^p, 
Shut solUy o'or hor stiuiy ovt's. 

Thoiv 's Mot in liui a lovplioi- hiixl ; 

Utviul oiu'th owns not iv hainiipv uost ; 
O lloii ! thou hiisl 11 I'ountiiiii stiiml, 

Wlioso wati'i-s lU'Vi'iiiioiv sliiiU ivst. 

Tliis Kautilul. mystt'iious thiuj;, 
This sn'uiius; visitant t'lvm luvivpn, 

This liii\l with llu' iiiiiiiovtal winj;. 
To u>i\ to mo riiy hiiml has j;ivoii. 

Tho (lulso tii-st oaujcht its tiny stivko, 
Tho blooil its ovimsou hno, I'lvni uiiu« : 

This lit'o whioh I hino daiva invoko. 
llonoolovtli is imnillol with Thino ! 

A silout awo is in my i\Him, 
1 tivmlilo with ilolioious t'oar ; 

Tho futvnv with its light ami gloom, 
Timo ami otovuity aiv hoiv. 

fonhts, hojH's, in oagi'r tnnmlt riso ; 

llrtu-, t^ my t^ml! ouo wivuost piiiyov; 
Uvwm fov my Innl in ranuliso, 

Aivil givo hov angv>l-\<lumago thoro ' 



v\ tlir " Bov's Uoni i>f W\««K-iv" <i l^rm«i\ Bo<Jt of Ni 

TiiK moon it shinos. 

My ilarliug whinos ; 
Tho ohvk stiikos twolvo : - 1»h1 oho<»r 
Tho sick, Ivth tar au>l uoar. 

Ovxl knowoth all ; 

Mousy nihhhvs in tho wall : 
Tho i-Ux-k stiikos ouo: — liko day, 
Dreams o'ov thy pillow jJay, 

Tho matin-K'U 

AVakt^s tho nun in ivnvont wU ; 
Tho oliH-k strikos two ; — thoy go 
To choir in a row. 

Tlio wiiul il Mows, 

Tho oofk ho oi'ows ; 
Tho olook stiikos tliioo ; - tho wagoner 
In liis stiiiw boil bogius to stir. 

■I'll,' stood ho vaws tho lloor, 

t'lvaks tho slalilo iloor ; 
Tho oloik strikos lour ; - 'I is plain, 
Tho ooHohniaii sifts his grain. 

Tho swallow's laugh llio still air shakos, 

Tho sun awakos -, 
'I'lio olook stiik<>s livo: — tho travollor must bi 

llo i>uts his stookiiigs on. 

Tho lion is ctaokiiig, 

Tho iluoks aiv >|uaoking ; 
'l"ho olook strikos six ; — awako, arise, 
'I'hou buy ling ; oomo, opo thy oyos. 

tjuiok to tho Imkor's run ; 

Tho rolls are ilouo ; 
Tho oliH-k stiikos sovou ; — 
'T is timo tho milk woiv in tho ovoii. 

l\it in somo buttor, do. 

And somo tiuo sugar too; 
Tho olook strikos eight ; — 
Now bring my liaby's jHirridgo straight. 



Hrsll ! tho waves ai\> ivUiiig in, 
^Yllito with loam, whito with foam ; 

Vathor toils amid tho din, 
Hut V«by sliH'i>s at homo. 

Hush! tho winds i\»u- hoai-se luid doop. 

Itn thoy oonu', on tlioy oomo ! 
Bivthor seeks tho waudoring slieojs 

I5ut l«hy sleeps at home. 

Hnsh ! tho rain swet>i>s o'ov tho kuowos 
Vhew thoy nvam. whoiv they rwun ; 

Sister goes to s>vk tho cows, 
Vhit l>aby sloejis at homo. 



TllR picture fades : as at a villag»> fair 
A sliowman's views dissolve into tho air. 
To reivpi«-ar trsusligunHl on tlu' scrwn. 
So in mv tanov this ; and Jiow once more 



- a ^ 

S 5^ 
2 a -S 






In part transfigured througli the open door 
Appears the selfsame scene. 

Seated I see the two again, 

But not alone ; they entertain 

A little angel unaware, 

With face as round as is the moon ; 

A royal guest with flaxen hair, 

W'lio, throned upon his lofty chair. 

Drums on the table with his spoon, 

'I'hcu drops it careless on the floor, 

'r(j grasp at things unseen before. 

Are these celestial manners? these 

The ways that win, the arts that please ? 

All, yes; consider well the guest. 

And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; 

He ruleth by the right divine 

I X helplessness, so lately born 

In purple chambers of the mom. 

As sovereign over thee and thine. 

He speaketh not, and yet there lies 

A conversation in his eyes ; 

The golden silence of the Greek, 

'I'lie gravest wisdom of the wise, 

Xot spoken in language, but in looks 

More legible than printed books. 

As if he could but would not speak. 

And now, monarch absolute, 
'I'hy power is put to proof ; for lo ! 
Resistless, fathomless, and slow. 
The nurse comes rustling like the sea, 
And pushes back thy chair and thee. 
And so good night to King ('anutc. 

As one who walking in the forest sees 

A lovely landscape through the parted trees. 

Then sees it not for boughs that inten'ene, 
Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed 
Through drifting clouds, and then again con- 

So I beheld the scene. 

There are two guests at table now ; 
The king, dejKjsed, and older grown. 
No longer occupies the throne, — 
The crown is on hLs sister's brow ; 
A princess from the Fairy Tales ; 
The very pattern girl of girls, 
All covered and embowered in curls, 
Kose tinted from the Isle of Flowers, 
And sailing with .soft silken sails 
From far-off Dreamland into ours. 
Above their bowls with rims of blue 
Four azure eyes of deeper hue 
Are looking, dreamy with delight ; 
Limpid as planets that emerge 
Above the ocean's rounded verge. 

Soft sliining through the summer night. 
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see 
Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; 
Nor care they for the world that rolls 
With all its freight of troubled souls 
Into the days that are to \ie. 

Hi-NKY wausworth Longfellow. 


I 'm in love with you. Baby Louise ! 
With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes. 
And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies. 
And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the 
skies, — 

God's sunshine. Baby Louise. 

WTien you fold your hands. Baby Louise, 
Your liand.s, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, 
With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air, 
Are you trying to think of some angel-taught 

You learned above. Baby Louise ? 

I 'm in love with you. Baby Louise ! 
Why ! you never raise your beautiful head ! 
.Some d;iy, little one, your cheek will grow red 
With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, 

"I love you," Baby Louise. 

Do you hear mc. Baby Louise ? 
I have sung your praises for nearly an hour. 
And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, 
And — you 've gone to sleep, like a weary flower. 

Ungrateful Baby Louise 1 

Margarbt EVnSGE. 


A BABY was sleeping ; 

Its mother was weeping, 
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 

And the t«mpest was swelling 

Round the fisherman's dwelling; 
And she cried, " Dermot, darling, come back 
to me ! " 

Her beads while she numbered. 

The baby still slumbered. 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : 

"0, blest l)e that warning. 

My child, thy .sleej) adorning, 
For I know that the angels are whispering with 






" And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 

0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! 
And say thou wouldst rather 
They 'd watch o'er thy father ! 

For I know that the angels are whispering to 


The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning, 
the wife wept with joy her babe's father to 

And closely caressing 
Her child with a blessing. 
Said, " I knew that the angels were whispeiing 
with thee." 

Samuel lover. 



The baby sleeps and smiles. 
What faiiy thought beguiles 

His little brain ? 
He sleeps and snules again, 
Flings his white arms about, 
Half opes his sweet blue eye 
As if he thought to spy, 
By coyly peeping out. 
The funny elf that brought 
That tiny faiiy thought 
Unto his infant mind. 
Would I some way could find 
To know just how they seem, 
Those dreams that infants dream. 
I wonder what they are, — 
Those thoughts that seem to wear 

So sweet a guise ? 
What picture, tiny, fair, 
What vision, lovely, rare. 

Delights his eyes ? 
See ! now he smiles once more ; 
Perhaps there is before 
His mental sight portrayed 

Some vision blest 
Of that dear land of rest, 

That far-off heaven, 
From whence his new-created sou! 

Has lately strayed ; 
Or to his ear, perchance, are given 
Those echoes sweet that roll 
From angel harps we may not hear, 
We, who have added year to year. 

And sin to sin. 
As yet his soul is spotless. Wliy 
Should not angelic harmony 
Reach his unsullied ear ? 

Whv not within 

His infant fancy transient gleams 
Of heaven find their way in dreams ? 

And still the baby sleeps, 
And as he sleeps he smiles. Ah, now 
He starts, he wakes, he weejis ; 
Earth-shadows cloud his baby-brow. 
His smiles how fleeting ; how 

Profuse his tears ! 
Dreams he of coming years. 
Checkered by shadow and by light, 
Unlike that vision holy, bright, — 

That fairy gleam, 

That infant dream 
That made him sweetly smile ? 
Do coming sin and son'ow. 
Phantoms of dark to-morrow. 
Their shadows cast before. 

Clouding all o'er 
His baby-dreams, erewhOe 

So beautiful ? 

Harriet w. stillhan. 


The baby sits in her cradle. 

Watching the world go round, 
EnwTapt in a mystical silence 

Amid all the tumult of sound. 
She must be akin to the flowers, 
For no one has heard 
A whispered word 
From this silent baby of ours. 

Wondering, she looks at the children, 

As they merrUy laughing pass, 
And smiles o'er her face go rippling. 

Like sunshine over the grass 
And into the heart of the flowers ; 
But never a word 
Has yet been heard 
From this silent darling of ours. 

Has she a wonderful wisdom. 

Of unspoken knowledge a store, 
Hid away from all curious eyes. 

Like the mysterious lore 

Of the bees and the birds and the flowers ! 

Is this why no word 

Has ever been heard 

From this silent baby of ours ? 

Ah, baby, from out your blue eyes 

The angel of silence is smiling, — 
Though silvern hereafter your speech. 
Your sOence is golden, — beguiling 
All hearts to this darling of ours, 
Who speaks not a word 
Of all she has heard, 
Like the birds, the bees, and the flowers. 

Ellen Bartlett cur 





What sliall be the baby's name ! 
Shall we catch from sounding fame 
Some far-echoed word of praise 
Out of other climes or days ? 
Put upon her brow new-born 
Crowns that other brows have worn ? 

Shall we take some dearer word, 
Once within our circle lieard, 
Cherished yet, though spoken less, — 
Shall we lay its tenderness 
On the baby's little head. 
So to call again our dead ? 

Shall we choose a name of grace 
That befits the baby's face, — 
Something full of childish glee. 
To be sjioken joyously ? 
Something sweeter, softer yet. 
That shall say, " Behold our jiet ! " 

Nay ; the history of the great 
Must not weigh our baby's fate ; 
Nay ; tlie dear ones disenthralled 
Must not be by us recalled ; 
We shall meet them soon again, — 
Let us keep their names till then ! 

Nay ; we do not seek a word 
For a kitten or a bird ; 
Not to suit the baby ways. 
But to wear in after days, — 
Fit for uses grave and good. 
Wrapped in future womanhood, — 

For the mother's loving tongue 
While our daughter still is young; 
For the manly lips that may 
Call tlie maiden heart away ; 
For the time, yet tenderer. 
When her children think of her. 

Let us choose a Bible name. 
One that always bides the same. 
Sacred, sweet, in every land 
All men's reverence to command ; 
For our earthly uses given. 
And yet musical in heaven. 

One I know, these names amid, — 
" Beauty " is its meaning hid ; 
She who wore it made it good 
With her gracious womanhood: 
Name for virtue, love, and truth. 
Let us call the baby liuth. 

K05SITER w. Raymond. 


No baby in the house, I know, 

'T is far too nice and clean. 
No toys, by careless fingers strewn. 

Upon the floors are seen. 
No finger-marks are on the panes, 

No scratches on the chaii-s ; 
No wooden men set up in rows. 

Or marshaled off in pairs ; 
No little stockings to be darned, 

.All ragged at the toes ; 
No pile of mending to be done. 

Made up of baby-clothes ; 
No little troubles to be soothed ; 

No little hands to fold ; 
No grimy fingers to be washed ; 

No stories to be told ; 
No tender kisses to be given ; 

No nicknames, "Dove" and "Mi 
No merry frolics after tea, — 

No baby in the lious 



0, THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! 

Those shoes that no little feet use I 
0, the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 

Tliose little blue unused shoes : 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eyes meet. 

That, by God's good-will, 

Yeare since, grew still. 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 

And 0, since that baby .slept. 

So hushed, how the mother has kept. 

With a tearful pleasure. 

That little dear treasure. 
And over them thought and wept ! 

For they mind her forevermore 
Of a patter along the floor ; 

.\nd blue eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 
There babbles from chair to chair 

A little sweet face 

That 's a gleam in the place. 
With its little gold curls of hair. 





'riion 0, wonder luit that lii>i' licart 
Frcun nil clso wouUl nitlu'r part 

'riiiiii lliiisi' tiny liliio shoes 

TliMl no litdc IVol use, 
Anil wlinso sifjlit niukos siu'h fond tonrs start I 



Ill Nil, niy lU'iir ! Ho still niul sliiiiibi'r I 

Holy iiiiKi'ls KUiinl tliy Iwl ; 
ll.';i\i'iily lili'ssiii^s witlioul mimlior 

(J.nitly riilliii^'oii tliy lii'iid. 

Slrrp, n\y Imlio ! thy I'oiid iiiul niunoiit, 
House mill honu', thy friends (irovide; 

All willunit lliy care or paynieiU, 
Ml Ihy wiiuts .lie \\A\ supiilied. 

llnw iiiueh hotter thou'rt attended 

I'liau the Son of God eould be, 
Wlioii from hoavon ho doseended. 

And hooanioa ehihl like thoo. 

Soil and easy is thy eradle : 

Coaiso and hard thy Savionv ky : 

Wluii his l.iilhi.laoo'wasa stnhlo", 
And his hod was hay. 

Si'o the kindly sho|iherds round him, 

'rollinij wonders from the sky ! 
Where they soiij;lit him, there they fonnd him, 

With hii ViiKin-Motherhy. 

Sie the lovely haho a-drossiiif; ; 

Lovely infant, how lie smiled ! 
When ho wept, the mother's hlossing 

Soothed and luislied the lioly eliihi. 

1.0, he sliimhei-s in his maiijjer. 
Where the horm^d oxen fed ; 
I'eaee, my darliuj; '■ hero's no danger I 
Here's no ox aiiear thy hed ! 

May'st lliou live to know and fear him, 
'I'rnst and love him all Ihy days : 
Tlu'ii j:^i dwell foi-ever near him ; 
Si'e his faee, aiivl sing his praise. 

I eonld give thee thousand kisses, 
1 1 oping what 1 most desii-e : 

Not a mother's fondest wishes 
(an to givater joys aspir*. 



Wlili.Kon the elilVwith calm delight she kneels, 
And the blue vales a thousand joys reeall, 

See, to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 
0, fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. — 

Far better taught, she lays her bosom hare, 

And the fond boy springs bnek to nestle there. 


AVl-.l', Willie M'iiikie riiis through the town, 
I'p stairs and doon stairs, in his niehf-gown, 
'rirlin' at the window, eryin' at the look, 
"Are the weans in their bed ? — for it 's now tvii 

Tiey, Willie Winkio ! are ye eomin' ben ? 

The eat 'a singin' gay thrums to the slcepin' hen, 

The doug 's spidcUn-ed on the lloor, and disna gie 

a cheep ; 
But here 's a waukrife hiddie, that wiiina fa' 


Oiiy thing but sleep, ye rogue : — glow'rin' like 

the moon, 
Ihittlin' in an airn jug wi' an aim spoon, 
Kumblin', tumbliu' roun' about, crawiii' like a 

>^kirlin' like a keuna-what — waukniu' sleepin' 

folk ! 

lli-y, Willie Wiukie 1 the wean 's in a ereei ! 
Waumblin' alf a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Uuggin' at the cat's lug, ajul ravellin' a' her 

thrums : 
Hey, Willie Wiukie ! — See, there he eonn-s I 

Wearie is the mitlier that has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie .stoussie, that eanna riii his lane, 
That lias a battle aye wi' sleep, hefon' he '11 close 

an eo ; 
But a kiss frae alf his rosy lips gies strength aiien 

to nii>. 


Si.KEK coat, eyes of fiif , 
Four paws that never tii'e, 
That 's puss. 

Ways pliiyful, tail on high. 
Twisting often towanl the sky 
That 's ]mss. 






In the larder, stealing meat, 
Patter, patter, little feet, 
That 's puss. 

After ball, reel, or string. 
Wild as any living thing, 
That 's puss. 

Round and round, after tail. 
Fast as any [lostal mail, 
That 's puss. 

Culled up, like a ball. 
On the door-mat in the hall. 
That 's puss. 

Purring loud on missis' lap, 
Having, then a nap, 
That 's jjuss. 

Blai-k as night, with talons long, 

Scratehing, whieli is very wrong, 

That 's j)us3. 

From a saucer lapping milk. 
Soft, as soft as washing silk, 
That 's puss. 

KoUing on the dewy grass, 
Getting wet, all in a mass. 
That 's puss. 

('limbing tree, and catching bird. 

Little twitter iievennore heard, 

Tliat 's puss. 

Killing Hy, rat, or mouse, 
As it runs about the house, 
That 's puss. 

Pet of missis, " Itte mite," 
Never must be out of sight, 
That 's puss. 



That way look, my Infant, lo ! 
What a pretty baby-show ! 
See the Kitten on the wall. 
Sporting with the leaves that fall. 
Withered leaves — one — two — and three - 
From the lofty elder-tree ! 
Through the calm and frosty air 
<^tf this morning hright ami fair. 

Eddying round and round they sink 

Softly, slowly : one might think, 

From the motions that are made, 

Everj- little leaf conveyed 

Sylph or faery hither tending, — 

To this lower world descending. 

Each invisible and mute. 

In his wavering parachute. 

— But the Kitten, how .she starts. 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 

First at one, and then its fellow 

Just as light and jusl as yellow ; 

There are many now — now one — 

Now they stop, and there are none : 

What intenseness of ilcsire 

In her upward eye of fire ! 

With a tiger-leap half-way 

Now she meets the coming prey, 

Lets it go as fast, and then 

Has it in her power again : 

Now she work.s with three or four, 

Like an Indian conjurer ; 

Quick as he in feats of art. 

Far beyond in joy of heart. 

Were her antics played in th' eye 

Of a thousand stamlers-by, 

flapping hands with shout and stare, 

What would little Tabby care 

For the plaudits of the crowd ? 

Over happy to be proud. 

Over wealthy in the treasure 

Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 

"Tis a pretty baby-treat ; 
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; 
Here, for neither Babe nor me. 
Other playmate can I see. 
Of the countless living things. 
That with stir of feet and wings 
(In the sun or under .shade. 
Upon bough or grassy blade) 
Ami with busy revelings, 
• hirp and song, and niurmuiings. 
Made this orchard's narrow space 
And this vale so blithe a place, — 
Multitudes are swept away 
Nevermore to breathe the day : 
Some are sleeping ; some in hands 
Traveled into distant lands ; 
Others slunk to moor and wood. 
Far from human neighborhood ; 
And, among the kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship. 
With us openly abide. 
All have laid their mirth aside. 

Where is he, that giddy sprite. 
Blue-cap, with his colors bright. 
Who was blest as bird could Ije, 
Feeding in the apple-tree ; 






Made such wanton spoil and rout, 

Turning blossoms inside out ; 

Hung — head ]iointing towards the ground - 

Fluttered, perched, into a round 

Bound himself, and then unliound ; 

Lithest, gaudiest Harleipiin ; 

Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ; 

Light of heart and light of limb ; 

What is now become of him ? 

Lambs, that through the mountains went 

Frisking, bleating merriment, 

When the year was in its prime. 

They are sobered by this time. 

If you look to vale or hill. 

If you listen, all is still. 

Save a little neighboring rill. 

That from out the rocky ground 

Strikes a solitary sound. 

Vainly glitter hill and plain. 

And the air is calm in vain ; 

Vainly Morning spreads the lure 

Of a sky serene and pure ; 

Creature none can she decoy 

Into open sign of joy : 

Is it that they have a fear 

Of the dreary season near ? 

Or that other pleasures be 

Sweeter e'en than gayety ? 

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
In the impenetrable cell 
Of the silent heart which Nature 
Furnishes to every creature ; 
Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
Too sedate for outward show, — 
Such a light of gladness breaks, 
Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — 
Spreads with such a living grace 
O'er my little Dora's face ; 
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. 
That almost I could repine 
That your transports are not mine, 
That I do not wholly fare 
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! 
And I will have my careless season. 
Spite of melancholy reason ; 
Will walk through life in such a way 
That, when time brings on decay, 
Now and then I may possess 
Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
— Pleased by any random toy ; 
By a kitten's busy joy. 
Or an infant's laughing eye 
Sharing in the ecstasy ; 
I would fare like that or this. 
Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 
Keep the sprightly soul awake ; 
And liavp fnrulties to take. 

Even from things by sorrow WTOUght, 
Matter for a jocund thought ; 
Spite of care, and spite of grief. 
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 


Little Four Years, little Two Years, 

Merry Christmas ! Happy New- Year's ! 

That is what I wish for you ; 

Shall I tell you what to do 

That will make my wish come true ? 

Cheerful looks and words are very 
Sure to make the Christmas merry : 
Tongues that speak the truth sincere, 
Hearts that hold each other dear. 
These will make a liappy year. 

Four Years is of Two the doulile, — 
Should be twice as brave iu trouble, 
Twice as gentle, twice as kind, 
Always twice as much inclined 
Mother's words to keep in mind ; 

So that Two Years, when she 's older. 
May remember what is told her, 
Jnst as Four Years did before, — 
Only think ! in two years more 
Little Two Years will be Four ! 




Golden head so lowly bending. 

Little feet so white and bare. 
Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened. 

Lisping out her evening praj'er. 

"Now I lay," — repeat it, darling — 

" \my me," lisped the tiny lips 
Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 

O'er the folded finger-tips. 

"Down to sleep,"— " To sleep." she murmured, 

And the curly head bent low ; 
" 1 pray the Lord," I gently added, 

" You can say it all, I know." 

" Pray the Lord," — the sound came faintly, 
Fainter still, — "my soul to keep" ; 

Then the tired head fairly nodded. 
And the child was fast asleep. 

But the dewy eyes half opened 
When 1 clasped her to my breast. 





And tlie dear voice softly whispered, 
"Mamma, God knows all the rest." 

0, the trusting, sweet confiding 
Of the child-heart ! Would that I 

Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, 
He who hears my feeblest cry. 

0, the rapture, sweet, unbroken. 
Of the soul who WTote that prayer ! 

Children's mjTiaJ voices, floating 
Up to Heaven, record it there. 

If, of all that has been written, 

I could choose what might be mine, 

It should be that child's petition, 
Kising to the throne di\'ine. 

MRS. R. S. HO\\1.AND. 



A LITTLE golden head close to my knee, 
Sweet eyes of tender, gentianella blue 
Fixed upon mine, a little coa.xing voice, — 
Only we two. 

"Tell it .igain !" Insatiate demand ! 
And like a toiling spider where I sat, 
I wove and spun the many-colored webs 
Of this and that. 

Of Dotty Pringle sweeping out her haU ; 
Of Greedy Bear ; of Santa Claus the good ; 
And how the little children met the Months 
Within the wood. 

" Tell it again ! " and though the sand-man came. 
Dropping his drowsy grains in each blue eye, 
"Tell it again ! 0, just once more ! " was still 
The sleepy cry. 

My spring-time violet ! early snatched away 
To fairer gardens all unknown to me, — 
Gardens of whose invisible, guarded gates 
I have no key, — • 

I weave my fancies now for other ears, — 
Thy sister-blossom's, who beside me sits, 
Rosy, imperative, and quick to mark 
My lagging wits. 

But still the stories bear thy name, are thine. 
Part of the sunshine of thy brief, sweet day. 
Though in her little warm and living hands 
This book I lay. 



GoLDENHAlK climbed up on grandpapa's knee ; 
Dear little Goldenhair, tii'ed Wiis she. 
All the day busy as busy could be. 

Up in the morning as soon as 't was light, 
Out with the birds and butterflies bright, 
Skipping about till the coming of night. 

Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. 
" What has my darling been doing," he .said, 
"Since she rose with the sun from her bed ;" 

" Pitty much," answered the sweet little one. 
" 1 cannot tell so much things 1 have done, 
Played with my dolly and feeded my bun. 

" .\nd then 1 jumped witli my little junip-roi)e. 
And 1 made out of some water and sou)) 
Biiotiful worlds, mamma's castles of hope. 

"Tluin I have readed in my picture-book. 
And BeUa and I, we went to look 
For the smooth little stones by the side of the 

" And then I comed home and eated my tea. 
And I climbed up on grandpapa's knee. 
And I jes as tired as tired can be." 

Lower and lower the little head pressed, 
Until it had dropped upon grandpajia's breast ; 
Dear little Goldenhair, sweet be thy rest I 

We are but children ; things that we do 
Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view 
That marks all our weakness, and pities it too. 

God grant that when night ovei-shadows our way, 
And we shall be called to account for our day, 
He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's lay ! 

And 0, when aweary, may we be so blest. 
And sink like the innocent child to our rest. 
And feel oui'selves clasped to the Infinite bre<a3t ! 



I HAD told him, Christmas morning, 

As he sat upon my knee, 
Holding fast his little stockings. 

Stuffed as full as full could he. 
And attentive, listening to me. 

With a face dennire and mild. 
That old Santa Claus, who filled them, 

Did not love a naughty child. 







" But we '11 be good, won't we, moder ?" 

And from oft' my lap lie slid, 
Digging deep among the goodies 

In his crimson stockings hid, 
While I turned me to my table, 

Where a tempting goblet stood, 
With a dainty drink biimmed over. 

Sent me by a neighbor good. 

But the kitten, there before me, 

With his white paw, nothing loth. 
Sat, by way of entertainment, 

Slapping oft' the shining froth ; 
And in not the gentlest humor 

At the loss of such a treat, 
I confess, I rather rudely. 

Thrust him out into the street. 

Then how Benny's blue eyes kindled ! 

Gathering up the precious store 
He had busily been pouring 

In his tiny pinafore, 
W^ith a generous look that shamed me, 

Sprang he from the carpet liright. 
Showing, by his mien indignant. 

All a baby's sense of right. 

"Come back, Haniey," called he loudly. 

As he held his apron white, 
"You shall hare my candy wabbit " ; 

But the door was fastened tight. 
So he stood, abashed and silent. 

In the center of the floor. 
With defeated look alternate 

Bent on me and on the door. 

Then, as by some sudden impulse. 

Quickly ran he to the fire, 
Anil while eagerly his bright eyes 

AVatched the flames go high and higher. 
In a brave, clear key, h.e shouted, 

Like some lordly little elf, 
' ' Santa Cans, come doWTi de ehiimey, 

Make my moder 'have herself." 

" I will be a good girl, Benny," 

Said I, feeling the reproof ; 
And straightway recalled poor Harney, 

Mewing on the gaUeiy roof. 
Soon the anger was forgotten, 

Laughter chased away the frown. 
And they gamboled 'neath the live-oaks 

Till the dusky night came down. 

In my dim, fire-lighted chamber 
Harney purred beneath my chair. 

And my play-worn boy beside me 
Knelt to say his evening prayer : 

' ' God bess fader, God bess moder, 
God bess sister," — then a pause, 

And the sweet young lips devoutly 
Murmured, " God bess Santa Kaus.' 

He is sleeping ; brown and silken 

Lie the lashes, long and meek. 
Like caressing, clinging shadows 

On his plump and peachy cheek ; 
And I bend above him, weeping 

Thankful tears, Undefiled ! 
For a woman's crown of gloiy, 

For the blessing of a child. 



Thou happy, happy elf ! 
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) 

Thou tiny image of myself ! 
(My love, he 's poking peas into his ear !) 
Thou meriy, laughing sprite, 
AVith spirits feather light. 
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin ; 
(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin ! ) 

Thou little tricksy Puck ! 

With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 

Light as the singing bird that wings the air, — 

(The door ! the door ! he '11 tumble down the 

stair ! ) 
Thou darling of thy sire ! 
(Why, Jane, he '11 set his pinafore afire ! ) 

Thou imi> of mirth and joy ! 
In love's dear chain so blight a link, 

Thou idol of thy parents ; — (Drat the boy ! 
There goes my ink. ) 

Thou cherub, but of earth ; 
Fit playl'ellow for fays, by moonlight pale, 

In hai-mless sport and mirth, 
(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail ! ) 

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
From every blossom in the world that blows. 

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, — 
(Another tumble ! That 's his precious nose !) 
Thy father's pride and hope ! 
(He '11 break the mirror with that skipping- 
rope !) 
With pure lieart newly st.imped from nature's 

(Where did he learn that squint ?) 

Thou young domestic dove ! 

(He '11 have that ring oS' with another shove,) 

Dear nureling of the hymeneal nest ! 

(Are these torn clothes his liest ?) 




Little epitome of man ! 

(He '11 climb upon the table, that 's his plan !) 

Touched vdih the beauteous tints of dawning 

(He 's got a knife !) 
Thou enviable being ! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing. 

Play on, play on. 

My elfin John ! 
Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, — 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) 

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down. 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, 
With many a lamb-like frisk ! 

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown ! ) 
Thou pretty opening rose ! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your 

nose ! ) 
Balmy and breathing music like the south, 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove ; 
(I '11 tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write unk-ss he 's sent aliove. ■! 

Thomas Hood. 



One day, as I wa.s going by 

That part of Holl>orn christened High, 

I heard a loud and sudden cry 

That chilled my very blood ; 
And lo ! fiom out a dirty alley, 
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, 
I saw a crazy woman sally, 

Bedaubed with gi-ease and muil. 
She turned her East, she turned her West, 
Staring like Pythoness possest. 
With streaming hair and heaving breast. 

As one stark mad with grief. 

"0 Lord ! Odear, my heart will break, I shall 

go stick stark staring wild ! 
Has ever a one seen anything about the streets 

like a crying lost-looking child ? 
Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to 

run, if I only knew which way — 
A Child as is lost about London streets, and es- 
pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle 

of hay. 
1 am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, 

you WTetch, you little Kitty M'Nab ! 
You promised to have lialf an eye to him, you 

know vou did, vou dirtv deceitful youn" 

drab ! 
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was 

with my own blessed Motherly eyes, 

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing 

at making little dirt-pies. 
I wonder he left the court, where he was better 

off than all the other young boys. 
With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, 

and a dead kitten, by way of toys. 
When his Father comes home, and he always 

comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes 

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being 

lost ; and tlie beef and the inguns not done ! 
La bless you, good folks, mind your own con- 

sarns, and don't be making a mob in the 

street ; 
Sergeant M'Farlane ! you have not come 

my poor little boy, have you, in your beat ? 
Do, good people, move on ! don't stand st<aring 

at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; 
Saints forbid ! but he 's Jj'r'aps been inviggled 

away up a court for the sake of his clothes 

by the prigs ; 
He 'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought 

it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair ; 
And his trousers considering not very much 

patched, and red plush, they was once his 

Father's best pair. 
His shirt, it 's very lucky I 'd got washing in the 

tub, or that might have gone \rith the rest ; 
But he 'd got on a very good pinafore with only 

two slits and a burn on the breast. 
He 'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was 

sewed in, and not quite so much jagged at 

the brim ; 
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, 

and not a fit, and you '11 know by that if 

it 's him. 
And then he has got such dear winning ways — 

but 0, I never, never shall see him no more I 

dear ! to think of losing him just after nussing 

him back from death's door ! 
Only the very last month when the windfalls, 

hang 'em, was at twenty a penny : 
And the threepence he 'd got by grottoing wms 

.spent in plums, and sixty for a chihl is 

too many. 
And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us 

all, and, drat him ! made a seize of our hog. — 
It 's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, 

he 's such a blunderin' drunken old dog ; 
The last time he was fetched to find a lost child 

he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, 
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a 

distracted Mother and Father about Town. 
Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, 

come home, to your best of Mothers ! 

1 'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they 

drive so, they 'd run over tlieir own Sister.; 
and Brothers. 






Or maylio \w 's stole hy some chiinbly-sweeiiiiig 

wretcli, to stick fast iu naii'ow Hues and 

what not, 
Anil be pokeil \\\i behind with a picked pointed 

jiolc, when the soot has ketched, and the 

chinibly 's red-hot. 
(1, 1 M give the wliolo wide world, if the world 

was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on 

his I'aeo ; 
For he 's my darlin' of darlin's, and if ho don't 

soon conio back, you 'U see me drop stone 

dead on the place. 
1 only wish I 'd got him safe in these two Moth- 
erly arms, and would n't I hug him and 

kiss him ! 
Law k ! I never knew what a precious he w'as — 

liut a child don't not feel like a child till 

you miss him. 
Why, there ho is ! Punch and Judy hunting, the 

young wretch, it 's that Billy as sartin as 

sin ! 
But lei nu- get him home, with a good grip of his 

hair, and I 'm blest if he shall have a whole 

bone in his skin ! 



I iiAvr. a son, a little son, a boy just five yeai-s 

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of 

giMitlc mould. 
They tell ine that unusual grace in all his ways 

That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond 

his childish years. 
1 cannot say how this may be ; I know his face 

is fair,'— 
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweot and 

serious air ; 
1 know his heart is kind and fond ; I know he 

loveth nu^ ; 
Hut lovrlli yet his mother more with grateful 

l'cr\eucy. that w-hieh others most admire, is the thought 

which tills his mind. 
The food for grave inquiring speech he every- 

wlieiv doth find. 
Strange (lue.stions doth he ask of me, when we 

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes per- 

With thoughts about this world of ours, and 

thoughts about the next. 
He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teachctli 

him to pray ; 
M\A strange, and sweet, and solemn then are t he 

words which he will sny. 
0, should my gentle child be spared to man- 
hood's years like me, 
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he w ill 

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his 

thoughtful brow, 
I dare not think what I should feel, were 1 to 

lose him now. 

1 have a son, a second son, a .sinijile child of 

three ; 
I '11 not declare how bright and fair his little 

features be, 
How silver sweet those tones of his when he 

prattles on my knee ; 
I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his 

brother's, keen. 
Nor his brow so full of chililish thought as his 

hath ever been ; 
But his little heart 's a fountain pure of kiiul and 

tender feeling ; 
And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich 

depths of love revealing. 
When he walks with me, the country folk, who 

pass us in the street. 
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks 

so mild and sweet. 
A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful 

Will sing his little song of love, when left to 

sport alone. 
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden 

home and hearth. 
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all 

our mirth. 
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his 

heart may prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for 

earthly love ; 
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching 

eyes must dim, 
God comfort ns for all the love which we shall 

lose in him. 

together walk ; 
Ho scarcelv thinks as children think, or talks as I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot 

children talk. 
Nor cares he much for childish sixirts, dotes not 

on bat or ball. 
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and 

aptlv mimics all. 

tQ-^ — ^ 

For they reckon not by years and months where 

he has gone to ilwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infiiit 

smiles were given ; 





And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to 

live in heaven. 
I i:annot tell what form is his, what looks he 

weareth now, 
Xor guess how briglit a glory crowns his shining 

seraph brow. 
'Die thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss 

whir;h he doth fc^el. 
Are imrnljered with the secret tilings which God 

wil! not reveal. 
Ijiit I know (for (jod hath told me this) that he 

is now at rest. 
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's 

loving breast. 
I know Ills sjiiiit feels no more tliis weary load 

ol' flesh. 
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of 

joy forever fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close Ix'neath their 

glittering wings. 
And soothe him with a .song that breathes of 

Heaven's divinest things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother 

dear and I) 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears 

from every eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can 

never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is 

certain peace. 
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls 

from bliss may sever ; 
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be 

ours forever. 
When we thiiiK of what our darling is, and what 

we still must be, — 
Wlien we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and 

tliis world's miseiy, — 
When we groan beneath this loail of sin, and 

feel this grief and pain, — 
Oh ! we 'd rather lose our other two, than have 

liini lierc again. 

John Moultrie. 



A KAiu little girl sat under a tree 
Sewing as long as her eyes could see ; 
'Hien smoothed her work and folded it right, 
iViid said, " Dear work, good night, good night ! 

Such a number of rooks came over her head. 
Crying " Caw, caw ! " on their way to bed. 
She said, as she watched their curious flight, 
' Little black things, good night, good night ! 

The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, 

The sheep's "Bleat! bleat!" came over the 

road ; 
All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, 
"Good little girl, good night, good night ! " 

She did not say to the sun, "Good night !" 
Though she saw him there like a ball of light ; 
For she knew he had God's time to keep 
All over the world and never could sleep. 

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ; 
The violets eoiirt,esied, and went to bed ; 
And good little Lucy tied up her hair. 
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. 

And, while on her pillow she softly lay. 

She knew nothing more till agjiin it wa.s day ; 

And all things said to the Ijcautiful sun, 

" Good morning, good morning I our work is 



Down the dimpled greensward dancing 
Bursts a flaxen-headed be\'y, — 

Bud-lipt lx)ys and girls atlvancing, 
Love's iiTcgular little levy. 

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, 

How they glimmer, how tliey quiver ! 

Sparkling one another after. 
Like bright ripples on a river. 

Tipsy band of rubious faces, 

Fluslied with .Joy's ethereal .spirit, 

Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
At J.K)ve's .self, and dn not fear it. 



Under my window, under my window, 

All in the Midsummer weather. 
Three little girls witli fluttering curls 

Flit to and fro together : — 
There 's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen. 
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, 

And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window. 

Leaning stealthily over, 
Merry and clear, the voice 1 hear, 

Of each glad-hearted rover. 
Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; 
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, 

As meiTy as bees in clover. 





Under my window, under my window, 
In the blue midsummer weather. 

Stealing slow, on a huslied tiptoe, 
I eateh tbeni all together : — 

liell with her bonnet of siitin slieen, 

And Maud witli her mantle of silver-green, 
And Kale: with tlie searlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window. 
And off through the orehard closes ; 

■Whiic Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, 
They scamper and drop their posies ; 

Hut ilear little Kate takes naught amiss. 

And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss. 
And 1 give her all my roses. 


■\\'ilEN' first thou earnest, gentle, .shy, ami fond, 
Jly eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure. 

My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 

Nor thought that any love again might be 

So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Kaithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; 

Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to teal's, 
Yet patient to rebuke when justly given ; 

(Ibedient, easy to be reconciled. 

And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my child ! 

Not willing to be left — still by my side. 

Haunting mv walks, while summer-day was 
dying ; ■ 
Nor leaving in thy turn, but jileased to glide 
Throuijh the dark room where I was sadly 
lying ; 
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek. 

boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower, 

No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade. 
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower ; 

Still, round the loved, thv heart found force to 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 

Then THOU, my nuTry love, — bold in thy glee, 
Uiuler the bough, or hy the firelight dancing. 

With tliy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, — 
nidst come, as restless as a bird's wing glan- 

Full of a wild and iiTppressible mirth, 

Like a voung sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! 

Thine was the shout, the song, the liurst of joy, 
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re- 
soundeth ; 
Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy. 
And the glad heart from which all grief re- 
boundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
L\irked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 

And thine was many an art to win and bless. 
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warm- 
ing ; 
The coaxing smile, the freiiuent soft caress. 
The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarm- 
ing ! 
Again my heart a new aftection found. 
But thought that love with thee had reached its 

At length thou earnest, — thou, the last and 
Nicknamed "the Emperor" by thy laughing 
Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast. 
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the 
Mingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile. 

And O, most like a regal child wert thou ! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming ! 
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow. 

Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dream- 
ing ; 
.\nd proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
.Vnd the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

IHtt'erent from both ! yet each succeeding claim 
1, that all other love had been forswearing. 

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
Nor injured either by this love's comparing. 

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, — 

But in the mother's heart found room for all ! 
Caroline E. Norton. 


Is there, when the winds are singing 
In the happy summer time, — 

When the raptured air is ringing 

With Earth's music heavenward springing. 
Forest chirp, and village chime, — 

Is there, of the sounds that tloat 

Sighingly, a single note 

Half so sweet, and clear, and wild. 

As the laughter of a child '. 





Listen ! and be now deligliteil : 

Morn hath touched her golden strings ; 

Earth and Sky their vows liave plighted ; 

Life and Light are reunited 
Amid countless carolings ; 

Yet, delicious as they are. 

There 's a sound that 's sweeter far, — 

One that makes the heart rejoice 

Jlore than all, — the human voice ! 

Organ finer, deeper, clearer, 

Though it be a stranger's tone, — 

Than the winds or waters dearer, 

More enchanting to the hearer, 
For it answereth to his own. 

But, of all its witching words. 

All its m}Tiad magic chords. 

Those are sweetest, hubhling wild 

Through the laughter of a child. 

Harmonies from time-touched towers, 

Haunted strains from rivulets. 
Hum of bees among the flowers. 
Rustling leaves, and silver showers, — 

These, ere long, the ear forgets ; 
But in mine there is a sound 
Ringing on the whole year round, — 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard 
Ere my child could speak a word. 

Ah ! 't was heard by ear far purer, 

Fondlier formed to catch the strain, — 

Ear of one whose love is surer, — 

Hei's, the mother, the endurer 
Of the deepest share of pain ; 

Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 

Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 

Hers to hoard, a lifetime after. 

Echoes of that infant laughter. 

'T is a mother's large affection 
Hears with a mysterious sense, — 

Breathings that evade detection. 

Whisper faint, and fine inflection. 
Thrill in her with power intense. 

Childliood's honeyed words untaught 

Hiveth she in loving thought. 

Tones that never thence depart ; 

For she listens — with her heart. 

LAMAN blanchar 



There 's no dew left on the daisies and clover. 

There 's no rain left in heaven. 
I 've said my "seven times " over and over, — 

Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, — so old I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done. 
The lambs play always, — they know no better ; 

They are oidy one times one. 

Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 

And shining so round and low. 
You were bright — ah, bright — but your light 
is failing ; 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You Moon ! have you done something wrong in 
That God has hidden your face ? 

1 hope, if you have, you will soon bo forgiven. 

And shine again in your place. 

velvet Bee ! you 're a dusty fellow, — 
You 've powdered your legs with gold. 

brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, 
Give me your money to hold ! 

Columbine ! open your folded wra|)]ier. 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

Cuckoopint ! toll me the purple clapper 

That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest, with the young ones in 
it — 
I will not steal them away : 

1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! 

I am seven times one to-day. 

Jean ingelow. 


Heirh-ho ! daisies and buttercups. 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and t;ill ! 
A\nien the wind wakes how they rock in tlu> 
And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and 
small ! 
Here 's two bonny boys, and here 's mother's own 
Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 

Jlother shall thread them a chain : 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow. 
That loved her brown little ones, loved them 
full fain ; 
Suig, "Heart, thou art wide though the house 
be but narrow," — 
Sing once, and sing it again. 







Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they 
bow ; 
A ship sails afar over warm oeean waters, 

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. 
bonny brown sons, and sweet little daugh- 
Maybe he thinks on you now ! 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — 
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure. 
And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and 
thrall ! 
Send down on their pleas-ure smiles passing its 
God that is over us all ! 

Jean ingelow. 


A .SIMPLE child. 
That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
AMiat should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage girl : 

She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 

That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodlaml air. 

And she was wildly clad ; 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — 

Her beauty made me glad. 

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, 

How many may you be ? " 
" How many ? Seven in all," she said. 

And wondering looked at me. 

•' And where are they ? I pray you tell.' 
She answered, ' ' Seven are we ; 

And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea ; 

" Two of us in the churchyard lie. 

My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the churchyard cottage, I 

Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell. 

And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell. 

Sweet maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little maid reply, 

" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie 

Beneath the churchyard tree." 

' ' You run about, my little maid ; 

Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid. 

Then )'e are only five." 

"Their graves are green, they may be seen. " 

The little maid replied : 
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. 

And they are side by side. 

"My stockings there I often knit ; 

My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the gi'ound I sit, 

And sing a song to them. 

" And often after sunset, sir, 

AVhen it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer. 

And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was Sister Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain ; 

And then she went away. 

"So in the churchyard she was laid ; 

And, when the grass was dry, 
Together round her grave we played, 

My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground w^as white with snow 

And I could run and slide. 
My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 

"If they two are in heaven ? " 
Quick w-as the little maid's reply ; 

" Master ! we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 

Their spirits are in heaven ! " — 
'T was throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her wiU, 

And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 


Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 

My little patient boy ; 
And balmy rest about thee 

Smooths off the day's annoy. 




I sit me down, and think 
Of all thy winning ways ; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, ' 
That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness ; 

Thy thanks to all that aiil ; 
Thy heart, in pain and weakness, 
Of fancied faults afraid ; 

The little trembling hand 
That wipes thy quiet tears, — 
These, these are things that may demand 
Dread memories for years. 

Sorrows I 've had, severe ones, 

I will not think of now ; 
And calmly, midst my dear ones, 
Have wasted with dry brow ; 
But when thy fingers press 
And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear the gentleness, — 
The tears are in their bed. 

Ah, first-born of thy mother. 

When life and hope were new ; 
Kind plajTnate of thy brother, 
Thy sister, father too ; 

My light, where'er I go ; 
My bird, when prison-bound ; 
My hand-in-hand companion — No, 
My prayers shall hold thee round. 

To say, "He has departed " — 

" His voice " — " his face " — "is gone 
To feel impatient-hearted. 
Yet feel we must bear on, — 

Ah, I could not endure 
To whisper of such woe. 
Unless 1 felt this sleep insure 
That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he 's fi.xed, and sleeping ! 

This silence too the while, — 
Its very hush and creeping 
Seem whispering us a smile ; 
Something divine and dim 
Seems going by one's ear. 
Like parting wings of cherubim, 

AVho say, " We 've finished here." 

Which from fkeir hps Reemed a c 

S Dramatic Scftii 


I H.iVE a name, a little name, 

Uncadenced for the ear, 
Unhonored by ancestral claim, 
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm 
The solemn font anear. 

It never did, to pages wove 

For gay romance, belong. 
It never dedicate did move 
As " Sacharissa, " unto love, — 

"Orinda," unto song. 

Though I write books, it will be read 

Upon the leaves of none. 
And afterward, when I am dead. 
Will ne'er be gi'aved for sight or tread, 

Across my funeral-stone. 

This name, whoever chance to call. 

Perhaps your smile may win. 
Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
Over mine eyes, and feel withal 
The sudden tears within. 

Is there a leaf that gi'eenly gi'ows 

Where summer meadows bloom. 
But gathereth the winter snows, 
And changeth to the hue of those, 
If lasting till they come ? 

Is there a word, or jest, or game, 

But time encrusteth round 
With sad associate thoughts the same ? 
And so to me my very name 

Assumes a mournful sounii. 

My brother gave that name to me 
WTien we were children twain, — 

MTien names accjuired baptismally 

Were hard to utter, as to see 
That life had any pain. 

No shade was on us then, save one 

Of chestnuts from the hill, — 
And through the word our laugh did run 
As part thereof. The mirth being done. 
He calls me by it still. 

Nay, do not smUe ! 1 hear in it 

^Vhat none of you can hear, — 
The talk upon the willow seat, 
The bird and wind that did repeat 
Around, our human cheer. 

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, 

My sisters' woodland glee, — 
My father's praise I did not miss, 
When, stooping down, he cared to kiss 
The poet at his knee, — 

And voices which, to name me, aye 

Their tenderest tones were keeping, — 
To some I nevermore can say 
An answer, till God wipes away 
In heaven these drojis of weeping. 




I'dems of ixfaxcy and yuuth. 


My uame to me a sailuess wears ; 

No murmurs cross my mind. 
Now God be thanked for these thick tears, 
Which show, of those dejiarted year's. 

Sweet memories left behind. 

Now God be thanked for years enwrought 

With love which softens yet. 
Now God be thanked for every thought 
^\^uch is so tender it has caught 

Earth's guerdon of regret. 

Earth saddens, never shall remove. 

Affections j'urely given ; 
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
The immortality of love. 

And heighten it with Heaven. 




Old Master Brown brought his ferule down, 

And his face looked angry and red. 
' ' Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair, 

Along with the girls, " he said. 
Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, 

AVith his head down on his breast, 
Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet 

That he loved, of all, the best. 
And Anthony Blair seemed whimpering there. 

But the rogue only made believe ; 
For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls. 

And oggled tlu'ui over his sleeve. 



A niSTRlcT school, not far away. 

Mid Berkshire hills, one mnter's day. 

Was humming mtli its wonted noise 

Of threescore mingled girls and boys ; 

Some few upon their tasks intent, 

But more on furtive mischief bent. 

The while the master's downward look 

Was fastened on a copy-book ; 

A\nien suddenly, behind his back, 

Dose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! 

As 't were a battery of bliss 

Let off in one tremendous kiss ! 

"AVhat 's that ?" the startled master cries ; 

" That, thir," a little imp replies, 

" Wath William Willith, if you pleathe, — 

I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe ! " 

With frown to make a statue thrill. 

The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" 

Mke \vi-etch o'ertaken in his track, 

With stolen chattels on his back, 

Will hung his head in fear and shame, 

And to the awful presence came, — 

A great, green, bashful simpleton, 

The butt of all good-natured fun. 

With smile suppressed, and birch upraised. 

The threatener faltered, — "I 'ni amazed 

That you, my biggest pupil, should 

Be guilty of an act so rude ! 

Before the whole set school to boot, — 

What e\-il genius put you to 't ? " 

" 'T was she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, 

' ' I did not mean to be so bad ; 

But when Susaimah shook her curls, 

And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls, 

And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, 

I could n't stand it, sir, at all. 

But up and kissed her on the spot ! 

I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not. 

But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo — 

I thought she kind o' wished me to ! " 



Blessings on thee, little man. 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawbenies on the hill ; 
With the sun.shine on thy face. 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; 
From ray heart I give thee joy, — 
I was once a barefoot boy ! 
Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million-dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy ; 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

for boyhood's painless play. 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day. 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools. 
Of the «-ild bee's morning chase. 
Of the wild-flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell. 
How the woodchuck digs his cell. 
And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung ; 




Where the whitest lilius blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the groundnut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way. 
Mason of his w'alls of clay, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! — 
For, eschewing books and tasks. 
Nature answers all he asks ; 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks. 
Part and parcel of her joy, — 
Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

O fur boyhood's time of June, 
t'rowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw. 
Me, their master, waited for. 
I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Hii'mming-birds and honey-bees ; 
For my sport the sc[uirrel played. 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Puii>led over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night. 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talkiil with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond. 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still, as my horizon grew. 
Larger grew my riches too ; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

O for festal dainties spreail. 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, — 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch : pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerly, then, my little man. 
Live .and laugh, as boyhood can ! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 

Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
JIade to tread the mills of toil. 
Up and dow-n in ceaseless moil : 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick an<l treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy. 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 

John Gkelnleaf wnrrriER. 


Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded days ! 
The minutes parting one by one like rays 

That fade upon a summer's eve. 
But 0, what charm or magic numbers 
Can give me back the gentle slumbers 

Those weary, happy days did leave ? 
When by my bed I .saw my mother kneel, 

And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ; 

Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this ; — 
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 



All in our marriage garden 

Grew, smiling up to God, 
A bonnier flower than ever 

Suckt the green wanntli of the sod ; 
beautiful unfathomably 

Its little life unfurled ; 
And crown of all things was our wee 

White Rose of aU the world. 

From out a balmy bosom 

Our bud of beauty grew ; 
It fed on smiles for simshine. 

On tears for daintier dew : 
Aye nestling warm and tenderly, 

Our leaves of love were curled 
So close and close alxjut our wee 

White Rose of aU the world. 

W^ith mystical faint fragi-ance 
Our house of life she filled ; 

Picvealed each hour some fairy tower 
Where winged Iiopes might build ! 







Wo saw — thoujjli lumo liki' iis might so« — 

Stiili iii-i'i'io\i3 in'oiniso in'ui'leil 
V poll till' (lotiils of our \vi<o 

WliitK Host' ol'nll llu> worlil. 

Hill ,.v,.niu.iv llu' lulo 

Or:iiij;.'l-li,','lil innviisoil, 
l.iUi' llu' iiivsti'iy ol' niooiiUgUt 

Tliiil I'oUls soiiio t'liiry lonst. 
Suow-wliito, siunv-sol'l, siiow-silontly 

Owr iliuliiij; Inul up-i'iii'lod. 
Ami .Iroiil i' tin' ,i;nivi' — (ioil's lap — our woo 

Wliil,' \i..s,' ofall Ihr worUl. 

Our IJoso was but in lilossoiu. 

Our life was Imt in spriuj;, 
AVliou down llio soloiuu luiiluischt 

Wo tlio si.iiils sing, 
••Auollior lui.l of infauoy " 

With holy dows iiiipoarloil ! " 
Ami ill Ihoir hands thoy boro our woo 

Whito lioso ofall tlio world. 

You soaivo oouUl think so small a thing 

Could loavo a loss so lai'gi' : 
llor lilllo light suoh shadow lliiig 

From dawn to sunsot's uiargi'. 
In otlior springs our lifo may bo 

111 Iwnnoivd bloom uufnrlod, 
l^iit iiovor, iiovor matoh our woo 

Whilo lioso ofall tlio world. 

ru'TinsKs OF mkmoky. 

Amoni! tho Ivantifiil inoturos 

That hang on Moniory's wall 
Is ono of a dim old foivst. 

That soomoth best of all ; 
Kot for its gnarlod oaks oldon, 

Park with tho mistlotoo ; 
Not for tho violots gi^ldon 

That sprinklo tho valo Mow ; 
Not for tho milk-whito lilios 

That loan fivm tho fiiiguiut lodg>\ 
Ooiimtting all day with tho sunlnwrns. 

And stoaling thoir goldoii odgi' ; 
Not for tho vinos on tho ujiland, 

Whoft* the bright it'd horrios ivst. 
Nor tho pinks, nor tho ^wlo swoot oowslip. 

It soomoth to ino tho In'st, 

I oiioo had a littlo bivthor. 

With oyos that woiv dark and doop : 
In tho lap of that old dim foi-ost 

Tlo lioth in poaoo asloop : 
Light as tho down of tho thistlo, 

FVoo as the winds that Wow, 

Wo itivod thoro the bonutiful suminei-s, 

Tho sunimors of long ago : 
Ihit his fool oil tlio hills grow woary, 

Ami, ono of tlio autumn eves, 
1 inado for my littlo brother 

A bod of tlio yellow leaves. 
Sw.-etly his pule arms folded 

My iiei'k in a nioek embraoo. 
As tiio light of immortal beauty 

Silently eovoroil his faee ; 
And when tho arrows of sunset 

lAiilged in tho tree-tops bright, 
Ho foil, in his saint-liko beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the ph'turos 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
The ono of the dim old forest 

Seenioth the best of all. 


I Il.-VVK a lover, a little lover, he rolls on the 

grass and plays in tlio elover ; 
Ilo builds bloek-honsos and digs olay wells, aiul 

makes siind-pios in his hut. 
t1u Sundays ho swings in the littlo poivh, or has 

a oloan oollar and goes to olnm'h. 
And a.sks ine to marry him, when ho gi-ows up. 

and live in a house " like that." 
Ho wears a givat apron like a .saek, - it 's hard 

thoy don't put him in trousei-s and jackets ; 
Ihit his soul is far above buttons, ami his hopes 

for the futui-o o'orshoot them. 
For Harry, like lai'gor lovei-s, will oonrt. without 

any visihlo means of support. 
And ask you to give him your heart ami hand, 

when ho does n't know wheiv to put thom. 

All day ho 's tumbling, and leaping, and .inniji- 

iiig, — running and oalling, hammering and 

Playing "bo-peep" with tho hluo-eyod babe, oi 

ohasing tho eows in the lane : 
But at twilight around my ohair ho lingi-i-s, 

clasping my hand in his dimpled fingi'i^. 
And 1 wonder if love so puiv and 1 shall 

ever inspiif agsiin ! 
Tho men that kneel and declaim thoir [vission, — 

tho won that " annex " you in stately fash- 
ion, — 
Thoro is not so much of trnth and warmth in all 

tho heartsi of a scoiv, — 
And 1 look in tho honest eyes of this Ivihy, and 

wonder what would have hap|H'ned, mayln-, 
If Heaven had not made me K' twenty now, 

while Harrv is only fonr. 






1 liiivc! a littln rival nainucl Aila, »lie clingH to a 

IiroiiiiHo tliat Harry made lior, 
" To l)iiild lii:r a all lull ol' (luoro," and live 

with Jicr there Home day ; 
liut Ada Ih growing lank and thin, — they Hay 

she will have a peaked chin, 
And I think had nearly outgrown her "lirst 

love " hcfore I came in the way. 
She wears short Bkirts, and a iiink-trimmed 

Shaker, the niccHt aprons liei' mother can 

make her. 
And a Snnday hat with feathers ; but it docs n't 

matter liow she is drcHsed, 
For Harry — sweetest of earthly lispers — has 

said in my ear, in loudest whisjiers, 
Witli his dear short arms around my neck, that 

he "likes the yroum-up bonnets best." 

He Hays he shall leani to be a lawyer, but his 
private preference is a sawyer. 

And counselors, not less than cariientci-s, live 
Vjy "sawdust" and by b/jrca. 

It's easier to saw a plank in two than to bore a 
judicial blockhead through. 

And if panels of jurors fail to yield, he can 
always panel doors. 

It 's a question of enterprise verxus wood, and if 
his hammer and will be good. 

If his energetic little brown hand be as stcaily 
and busy then. 

Though chisel or [jcn be the weapon he 'fl need- 
ing, whether his business is planing or plead- 

Harry will cut his way through the ranks, and 
stand at the head of you men ! 

I say to him sometimes, "My dearest Harry, we 

have n't money enough to mairy " ; 
He has si-Kty cents in his little tin " bank," and 

a keepsake in his diaw(;r ; 
But he always promises, " 1 '11 get plenty — I '11 

lind where they make it, when I 'm twenty ; 
I '11 go down town where the other men do, and 

bring it out of the store." 
And then he describes such wonderful dresses, 

and gives me such gallant hugs and caresses, 
With items of courtshiji from .M other Goose, silk 

cushions ami rings of gold. 
And I think what a fond tnie breast to dream on, 

what a dear, brave heart for a woman to 

lean on, a king and kingdom are .saving up for 

some baby a twelvemonth old ! 

Twenty years hence, when 1 am forty, and Harry 
a young man, gay and nauglity. 

Flirting and dancing, and shooting guns, driv- 
ing fast horses and cracking whips. 

The hand.Homest fellow ! — Heaven bless him ! — 

setting the girls all wild to possess him, — 
With his dark mustaf;he and hazel eyes, and 

cigJirs in those pretty lips ! 
O, do you think he will i/uite forget me, — ilo y(ju 

believe he will ever regret mef 
Will he wish the twenty years back again, or 

deem this an idle myth, 
While I shall sometimes push up my glasses, 

and sigh iis rny baby-lover passes. 
And wonder if Heaven sets this world right, as 

I look at .\Ir. Snjith ! 



CThom (fivtn lli<: following narr.illvd ai lo tli.: orli{ln o( " Tlic 
MilhcrlcM Bairn " : " When I was Jivin' in Aberdeen. I was linipinif 
roun' the hoUM: to my garret, when I hcArd the ((rectin' '/ a wean. 
A tlMie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a bljf (lame, bcllowin , 
■ Yc huHie, will ye lick a mllherlcftv balm : ' 1 hobbled up the fttair 
and wrote the *an(f afore siccpin'."] 

When a' ither baimics are liushe<l tfi their liamo 
15y aunty, or cousin, or frecky gran<l-daine, 
Wha stands hist and lanely, an' nfudmdy caiin'? 
'T is the puir doited loonie, — the milherless 
bairn ! 

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed ; 
Nano covers his cauld W;k, or haps his Iiarc 

His wee hackit heelies arc hard as the aim, 
An' lithclcss the lair o' the mitherless bairn, 

Ancath his cauld brow siecan dreams hover 

0' hands that wont kindly tf) kame his dark hair ; 
But inoiTiin' brings dut'dies, a' reckless an' stem. 
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless tjaim ! 

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed 
Now rests in the mools where her mammie is 

laid ; 
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn. 
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth. 
Still watches his wearisome wanrlerings on ctrth ; 
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn 
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless baini ! 

0, speak hiif) na harshly, —he trembles the 

He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile ; 
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall 

That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn ! 

William thom. 







I LOVE it, 1 love it ! and wiio shall dare 

To chide me for loving tliat old arm-ehair ? 

1 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 

I 've bedewed it with tears, I 've embalmed it 

with sighs. 
'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start ; 
Would you know the spell ( — a mother sat there ! 
Ami a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

1 n eliildhood's hour I lingered near 

The liallowed seat with listening ear; 

And gentle words that mother would give 

To tit me to die, and teach nie to live. 

.She told me that shame would never betide, 

With IVuth for my creed, and God for my guide ; 

Slie taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat, and watched her numy a day, 
When her eye grew dim, and lier locks were gray ; 
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled, 
Aud turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — 
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! 
Aud I learned how much the heart can bear, 
^VlleIl 1 saw her die in her old arm-chair. 

'T is past, 't is past ! but I gaze on it now, 
With ([uivering breath and throbbing brow : 
'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died. 
And memory flows with lava tide. 
iSay it is folly, and deem nie weak, 
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
Hut I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
Jly soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 


How dear to this heart are the scenes of mv 
AVhen fond recollection presents them to new ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
Andevery loved spotwhichmyinfancyknew ; — 
The \vide-spreading pond, and the mill which 
stood by it. 
The bridge, and therockwhere the cataractfell ; 
The cot of my father, the dair)--house nigh it. 
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket wliich hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; 
For often, at noon, when returned from the 
1 found it the source of an exc|uisite jjleasure. 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were 
glowing ! 
And nuick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
Aud dripping with coolness, it rose from the 
well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to re- 
ceive it. 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt nic tn 
leave it. 
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situation. 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
And sighs for the bucket which hangs iji the 
well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 



I r.EiiEMnKU, 1 remember 

The house where. 1 was born. 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn. 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away ! 

I remembei-, I remember 

The roses, red and white. 
The violets, and the lily-cups, — 

Those flowei-s made of light ! 
The lilacs where the robin built. 

Anil where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The tree is living yet ! 

I remember, I remember 

Where 1 was used to swing. 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing ; 
My spii-it flew in feathers then. 

That is so heavy now. 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on mv brow ! 


T n !•: 


• Ik childhood's hour I lingered near 
The hallo'.i.'ed seat ivith list'ning ear: 
I sat and watched her many a day^ 
When her eye grem dim, and her locks -aiere gray: 
And I almost worshipped iter when site smiled. 
And turned from her Bible to bless her child." 





I reifieinbcr, I iciiiciiiticr 

Ttic fir-trtcB dark and liigli ; 
I ufw.-d to think tlicir Blender Ujps 

Were clow: again»t the oky. 
It waH a ehildiHli ignorance, 

Hut now 't in little joy 
'I'o know I 'in farther oil' from heaven 

Than when I was a Ujy. 

TllOMAH llOOLf. 


Woodman, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a uinglc Ixiugli ! 
In youth it sheltered ine, 

Ami 1 '11 prot'.'ct it now. 
'T waj) my forefatlier'H hand 

Tliat phw-ed it near his cot ; 
There, wooilman, let it stand, 

Thy ax ithall lutrm it not ! 

'lliat old familiar tree, 
WhoKc irlory and renown 

Are H[)rca<l o'er land ami B<;a, 
And wouldnt thou hew it down? 

Woodman, fort^ear thy Htroke ! 
Cut not its eaith-Ujund ties; 

0, Hj/are that agwl oak, 
>iow t/jwering ti> the skiei*! 

When hut an idle hoy 

I sought its gTaU;ful nhaile; 
In all their gu«hing joy 

Here t<jo my hi<*t<;r« played. 
My mother kiswid me here ; 

.\ly father presw^l my hand — 
Forgive thin foolish Viar, 

|{ut let tliat old oak stand ! 

My heart-strings round thc; cling, 

Close as thy Ijark, old fiiend ! 
Here sliall the wild-bird sing. 

And still thy branches tiend. 
Old tree ! the stomi still braveS 

An<l, woodman, li«ive the spot; 
While I ve a Itand to Siive, 

Thy ax shiiU hann it not. 

Cti/jROR p. Mofckia 










Little EUie sits alone 
Mid the beeches of a meadow, 

By a stream-side, on tlie gi-ass, 

And the trees are showering down 
DoaMes of their leaves in shadow 

On her shining hair and face. 

Slie has thrown her bonnet by. 
And her feet she has been dipping 

In tlie shallow water's flow. 

Now she holds them nakedly 
In her hands all sleek and dripping, 

While she rocketh to and fro. 

Little Ellie sits alone. 
And the smile she softly uses 

Fills the silence like a speech, 

Wliile she thinks what shall be done, — 
And the sweetest pleasure chooses 

For her future within reach. 

Little Ellie in her smile 
Chooses . ..." I will have a lover, 

Riding on a steed of steeds ! 

He shall love me without guile. 
And to him I will discover 

The swan's nest among the reeds. 

"And the steed shall be red-roan. 
And the lover shall be noble. 

With an eye that takes the breath. 

And the lute he plays upon 
Shall strike ladies into trouble. 

As his sword strikes men to death. 

"And the steed it shall be shod 
All iu silver, housed in azure, 

And the mane shall swim the wind ; 

And the hoofs along the sod 
Shall flash onward and keep measure, 

Till the shepherds look behind. 

" But my lover will not prize 
All the glory that he rides in. 

When he gazes in my face. 

He will say, '0 Love, thine eyes 
Build the shrine my soul abides iu. 

And 1 kneel here for thy grace.' 

" Tlien, ay, then — he shall kneel low, 
AVith the red-roan steed anear him. 

Which shall seem to understand — 
Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! 
For the worlil must love and fear him 
Whom I gift with heart and hand.' 

" Then he will arise so pale, 
I shall feel my own lips tremble 

AVith a yes 1 must not say ; 

Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,' 
I will utter, and dissemble ; — 

' Light to-morrow with to-day. ' 

" Then he '11 ride among the hills 
To the wide world past the river, 

Tliere to put away all wrong ; 

To make straight distorted wills, 
And to empty the broad quiver 

Which the wicked bear along. 

' ' Three times shall a young foot-page 
Swim the stream and climb the mountain 

And kneel down beside my feet; — 

' Lo, my master sends this gage. 
Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 

AVhat wilt thou exchange for it?' 

"And the first time, I will send 
A white rosebud for a guerdon, — 

And the second time, a glove ; 

But the third time, I may bend 
From my pride, and answer, ' Pardon, 

I f he comes to take my love. ' 

"Then the young foot-page will run, — 
Then my lover will ride faster. 

Till he kneeleth at my knee : 

' I am a Duke's eldest son ! 
Thousand serfs do call me master, — 

But, Love, I love but thee! ' 

" He will kiss me on the mouth 
Then, and lead me as a lover 

Through the crowds that praise his deeds ; 

And, when soul-tied by one troth. 
Unto Jiim I will discover 

That swan's nest among the reeds." 

Little Ellie, with her smile 
Not yet ended, rose up gayly. 

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe. 

And went homeward, round a mUe, 
Just to see, as she did daily. 

What more eggs were with the two. 






Pushing through the ehn-tree copse, 
Wmiling up the stream, light-hearted, 

Where the osier pathway leads, — 

Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. 
Lo, the wild swan had deserted, 

And a rat had gnawed the reeds. 

Ellie went home sad and slow. 
If she found the lover ever. 

With his red-roan steed of steeds. 

Sooth 1 know not ! but I know 
She could never show him — never. 

That swan's nest among the reeds ! 



Piped the blackbird on the becchwood spray, 
" Pretty maid, slow wandering this way. 

What 's your name ! " (juoth he, — 
"What's yourname ? 0, stop and straightunfold, 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold." — 

"Little Bell," said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks. 
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks, — 

" Bonny bird," (-|UOth she, 
" Sing me your best song before I go." 
" Here 's the very finest song I know. 

Little Bell," said he. 

And the blackbird piped ; you never heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird, — 

Full of ({uips and wiles. 
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, 
All for love of that sweet face below, 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 

And the while the bonny bird did pour 
His full heart freely o'er and o'er 

'Neath the moniing skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the blue, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, 
Peeped the scpiirrel from the hazel shade. 

And from out the tree 
Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear ; 
Whilebold blackbird piped that all might hear, — 

" Little Bell," piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern, — 
" S'luirrel, squirrel, to your task return ; 
Bring me nuts," quoth she. 

Up away the frisky squiiTel hies, — 
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes, — 

And adown the tree 
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun. 
In the little lap dropped one by one. 
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! 

" Happy Bell," pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade, — 
"Sciuinel, siiuii-rel, if you 're not afraid, 

Come and share with me !" 
Down came squirrel eager for his fare, 
Down came bonny blackliird, 1 declare ; 
Little Bell gave each his honest share, — 

Ah the merry three ! 
And the while these frolic playmates twain 
Piped and frisked from bough to bovigh again, 

'Neath the morning skies. 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seems to grow and grow. 
And shine out in happy overflow 

From her blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot at close of day. 
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray ; 

Very calm and clear 
Rose the praj-ing voice to where, unseen. 
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 

Paused awhile to hear. 
" What good child is this," the angel said, 
"That with happy heart beside her bed 

Prays so lovingly?" 
Low and soft, 0, very low and soft. 
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, 

" Bell, dear Bell !" crooned he. 

"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair 
Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care ; 

Child, thy bed shall be 
Folded safe from harm. Love, dee]i and kind. 
Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, 

Little Bell, for thee!" 


'T w.\s the night before Chiistmas, when all 

through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney with 

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there : 
The children were nestled all snug in their beds. 
While visions of sugar-])lums danced in their 

heads ; 
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap. 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's 

nap, — 







\V hen out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I .sprang from my bcil to see what was the mutter. 
Away to the window 1 Hew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon on the breast of the uew-lallon snow 
<.lave a lustre of midday to objects below ; 
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
lUit a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick 
1 knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapiil than eagles his coursers they eamo, 
And ho whistled and sliouted, and called tliem 

by name : 
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, I'rancorund 

On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall ! 
Now dasli away, dash away, dash away all !" 
As dry leaves that before the wild fturricane lly, 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the 

So up to the house-top the coursers they hew. 
With the sleigh full of toys, — and St. Nicholas 

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nieholascame with abound. 
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot. 
And his clothes were all tarnished with a.shesand 

A bundle of toys ho had lluug on his bactk, 
And ho looked like a pedler just opening his pack. 
His eyes how they twinkled ! his dimples how 

merry ! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a clierry ; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 
And the board on bis chin was as white as tho 

Tho stump of a pi|)c lie Iiohi tight in his teeth. 
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 
He had a broad face an<l a little round belly 
Thatsliook, when ho laughed, like a bowl full of 

He was chubby and plump, — a right jollyoldelf; 
And I laughed, when 1 saw him, inspitoof my.self. 
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head 
Soon gave mo to know I had nothing to dread. 
He spoke notaword, butwent straight to his work. 
And fdled all tho stockings ; then turned with a 

Anil laying his finger aside of his nose. 
And giving a nod, up tho chimney ho rose. 
He spi-ang to his .sleigh, to his team gaveawhistle. 
And away they all How like the down of a thistle : 
But 1 heard him exclaim, ore ho drove out of sight, 
" Ha])py C^hrist mas toall, and toall agood-night ! " 



The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night. 
And ho said, " Now 1 shall be out of sight ; 
So through the valley and over the height 

In silence I '11 take my way. 
I will not go like that blustering train, 
The wind and tho snow, the hail and the rain. 
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, 

But 1 '11 be as busy as tlicy ! " 

Then he went to tho mountain, and powdered its 

Ho climbed up tho trees, and their boughs he 

With diamonds and pearls, and over the lireast 

Of the (juivering lake ho spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
Tho downward point of many a spear 
That ho hung on its margin, far and near, 

Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to tho windows of those who sh'pt. 
And over each pane like a fairy crept : 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stopped, 

By tho light of the moon was soon 
Most beautiful things. There were flowers ajid 

Tliere were bevies of birds and swarms of Ikhjs, 
There wore cities, thrones, temples, and towers, 
and these 

All pictured in silver sheen ! 

But ho did one thing that was hardly fair, — 
He poepoil in the cupboard, and, finding there 
That all had forgotten for liim to prepare, — 

" Now, just to set them a thinking, 
I '11 bite this basket of fruit," said ho ; 
" This costly pitcher I '11 burst in three, 
And the glass of water they 've left for mo 

Shall 'tckkk!' to tell them 1 'm drinking." 


■' due n.ninc is Elizabeth."— BEN JONSON. 

1 ■wir,!, paint her as I see her. 
Ten times have the lilies blown 
Since she looked upon the sun. 

And her face is lily-clear, 

Lily-shaped, and droiijied in duty 
To the law of its own beauty. 

Oval cheeks encolorod faintly, 
Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading olT to air ; 




And a forehead fair and saintly, 
Wliicli two blue eyes undershine, 
Iiik(^ meek prayers before a shrine. 

Fare and ligure of a child, - 
Though too ealin, you think, and tender, 
l''<pr the childhood you would lend lier. 

Yet c'hild-simple, undefiled, 

Frank, obedient, — waiting still 
On the turnings of your will. 

Moviiif^ light, as all yo\ir things, 
,\s young l)irds, or early wheat, 
When the wind blows over it. 

Oidy, free f]-om (lutterings 

Of loud nnrth that scorneth measure, — 
Taking love for her chief pleasure. 

Choosing ])leasui'es, Ibr the rest, 
Wliirh runiu softly, — just as she, 
Wlii^n she nestles at your knee. 

Quiet talk she liketh best. 
In a bower of gentle looks, — 
Watering flowers, or leailijig books. 

And lier voice, it nninnurs lowly. 
As a silver stream may run, 
Wliich yet feels, you feel, the sun. 

And her smile it .seems half holy, 
As if drawn from thouglits more far 
Than our common jestings are. 

And if any poet knew her, 

]ie would sing of her with falls 
Used in lovely mailrigal.s. 

And if any painter drew her, 
He would paint her unaware 
With a halo round the hair. 

And if reader read the poem. 

He would whisper, " You have done a 
Consecrated little Una." 

And a dreamer (did you show him 
That same picture) would exclaim, 
" 'T is my angel, with a name I " 

And a stranger, when he sees her 
In the street even, smileth stilly, 
Just as you would at a lily. 

And all voices that address her 
Soften, sleeken evoiy word. 
As if speaking to a biid. 

And all fancies yearn to cover 
The hard earth whereon she passes, 
With the thymy-scentcd grasses. 

And all hearts do pray, "(!od love her I 
Ay, and certes, in good sooth, 
We may all be sure he doth. 



Bei'wekn the dark and the daylight, 
When night is beginning to low(.'r. 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the children's hour. 

I hear in the chandler aliove me 

The patter of little feel, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my .study 1 see in the laniidight. 
Descending the broad hall .stair. 

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper and then a silence ; 

Yet I know by their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning together 

To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stainvay, 
A sudden raid from the hall, — 

By three doors left unguarded. 
They enter my eastle wall. 

Tliey clind) up into my turret. 

O'er the anns and back of my cliair ; 

If I try to escape, they surround me : 
They seem to be everywhc^rc. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their anns at)out me entwine. 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 

Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 
. Because you have scaled the wall. 
Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress. 

And will not let you ilepart. 
But put you into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 







Ami tlioro will I ki'ep you forever, 

Yos, t'orovor uiul a day, 
Till llio walls shall .rmubli' to niiii, 

Ami iiumkU'r in dust away. 

11, W. I.ONUl'I.LLOW. 


SwKK'l'lii; and sweuter. 

Soil and low, 
Neat little iiyuiiili, 

Tliy imuilu'is How, 
Urging tliy tliiniMc, 
Thril't's tidy symbol, 
Iiusy and uimlile, 

'l"o and fro ; 
Trettily plying 

Tlireail and song, 
Keeping tlieni Hying 

l,ate and long. 
Though the stiteh linger, 
Kissing thy linger 

Quiek, — as it skips along. 

Many an eelio. 

Soft and low. 
Follows thy Hying 

Faiiey so, — • 
Melodies thrilling. 
Tenderly tilling 
Thee with their trilling, 

t'ome and go ; 
Memory's tingi'r, 

Quiek as tliino, 
l.oviug to linger 

On the line, 
Writes of another. 
Dearer than hivther : 

Would that the name \ve«' mine ! 
John Williamson rAi.MFK, 


VoiT bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your 

How many soever they be. 
And let the bix^wu meadow-lark's note as he ranges 

Come over, eonie over to me. 

Yet binls' elenrost eaitil by fall or by swelling 

No magieal sense eonveys. 
And Iwlls have forgotten their old ait of telling 

The fortune of future days, 

" Turn again, turn agj»in,"onee they rang eheorily 
While a bov listened alone ; 

Made his heart Yearn again, musing so wearily 
All by hiiiiselVi.n a sloue. 

Poor bells ! 1 forgive you ; your good days are 
And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing, sliall aught, anght 
diseover : 
You leave the story to me. 

The I'o.xglove shoots out of tlie given malted 

Tlvpariiig lier hoods of snow ; 
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weatlier ; 

O, ehildren take long to gniw. 

1 wish, ami 1 wi^h that tlie spring would go 

Nor long summer bide so late ; 
And 1 eonld grow on like the foxglove and aster, 

For some things are ill to wait, 

1 w ait for the day when dear hearts shall diseover. 
While dear hands are laiil on my head ; 

'■ Tlie ehild is u woman, the book may elose over, 
For all the lessons are said." 

I wait for my story — the binis cannot sing it. 

Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, bring 
it ! 

Such ns 1 wish it to be. 


AViii:n the showery vapors gather over all the 
sttirry spheres. 

And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in 
rainy tears, 

'T is a joy to press the pillow of a cottage cham- 
ber bed. 

And listen to the patter of the soft iiiin overhead. 

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the 

And a thousand divary fancies into busy being 

start ; 
And a thousivnd recolleetions weave their bright 

hues into woof. 
As 1 listen to the patter of the soft rain on the 


There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to 

years agoue, 
To survey the infant sleejiei's ere she left them 

till the dawn. 





1 cau sc-e her btiuliiig o'er iiie, us I listen to tlie 

Wliieli is played upon the sliingles hy the patter 

of the rain. 

Then my little serajjh sister, with her wings and 

waving hair, 
And her bright-eyed cherub brother, — a serene, 

angelic pair, — 
Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise 

or mild reproof. 
As I listen to the murnuir of the soft rain on the 


.\iid another comes to thrill lae witli lier eyes' 

delicious blue. 
I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all 

untrue ; 
I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may hjvc 

And my heart's quick jiulses vibi-ate to the patter 

of the rain. 

There is naught in art's liravnras that cau work 
with such a spell, 

In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the 
holy passions swell. 

As that melody of nature, — that sulxlued, sub- 
duing strain. 

Which is played upon the shingles liy the jiatter 
of the rain. 


Three years she grew in sun and shower ; 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown : 
This child 1 to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

"Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and imjmlse ; and with mc 

The girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

"She shall be sportive as the fawn 
Tliat wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm. 
And hers the silence and the calm. 

Of mute insensate things. 


" The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
Xor shall she fail to see 

E'en in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maidec's foir.. 
By silent .sympathy. 

"The stars of nddnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round. 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her fonn to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy 1 will give 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake. The work was done, — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been, 

And nevermore will be. 

WILLIAM Wordsworth. 


il.viiiKN ! with the meek brown eyes. 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, — 
• Jolden tresses wreathed in one. 
As the braided .streamlets ran ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
'V\^here the brook and river meet. 
Womanhood and childliood fleet ! 

Hazing, with a timid glance. 
On the brooklet's swift advance. 
On the river's broad expanse! 

Deep and still, that gliding .stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
Wlien bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian '! 

Seest thou .shadows sailing by. 
As the dove, with startled eye. 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hearest thou voices on the .shore. 
That our ears perceive no more. 
Deafened by the cataraat's roar ? 






thou child of uuiiiy prayers ! 

Life bath quicksands, Life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows. 
When the young heart overflows. 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through soitow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

0, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal. 
Even as sleep oui' eyes doth seal ; 

Aud that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart. 
For a smile of God tliou art. 


Like the violet, whii-h alone 
Prospers in some happy shade, 

My Castara lives unknown. 
To no ruder eye betrayed ; 

For she 's to herself untrue 

Who delights i' the public view. 

Such is her beauty as no arts 

Have enriched with borrowed gi'ace. 

Her high birth no pride imparts. 
For she blushes in her place. 

Folly boasts a gloilous blood, — 

She is noblest being good. 

Cautious, she knew never yet 

What a wanton courtship meant ; 

Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, 
In her silence eloquent. 

Of herself survey she takes. 

But 't^veen men no difference makes. 

She obeys with speedy will 

Her gi-ave parents' wise commands ; 

Ami so innocent, that ill 

She nor acts nor understands. 
Women's feet run stUl astray 
If to ill they know the way. 

She sails by that rock, the court, 
Where oft virtue splits her mast ; 

And retiredness thinks the port. 
Where her fame may anchor cast. 

Virtue safely cannot sit 

Where vice is enthroned for wit. 

She holds that day's pleasure best 
Where sin waits not on delight ; 

Witliout mask, or ball, or feast. 
Sweetly spends a winter's night. 

O'er that darkness whence is thiiist 

Prayer aud sleep, oft govenis lust. 

She her throne makes reason climb, 
While wild passions captive lie ; 

And each article of time. 

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly ; 

All her vows religious be. 

And she vows her love to me. 



The shades of eve had crossed the glen 
That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, 

When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, 
AVe stopped before a cottage door. 

" God save all here," my comrade cries, 
And rattles on the raised latch-pin ; 

"God save you kindly," quick replies 
A clear sweet voice, and asks us in. 

We enter ; from the wheel she starts, 

A rosy girl W'ith soft black eyes ; 
Her fluttering court'sy takes our hearts. 

Her blushing grace and pleased suiimse. 

Poor Mary, she was quite alone. 

For, all the way to Glenmalure, 
Her mother Iiad that morning gone. 

And left the house in charge with her. 

But neither household cares, nor yet 
The shame that staitled virgins feel, 

Could make the generous gu-1 foi-get 
Her wonted hospitable zeal. 

She brought us in a beechen bowl 

Sweet mDk that smacked of mountain thyme. 
Oat cake, and such a yellow roll 

Of butter, — it gilds all my rhyme ! 






And, while we ate the grateful food 
(With weary limbs on bench reclined), 

Considerateand discreet, she stood 
Apart, and listened to the wind. 

Kind wishes both our souls engajjed, 
From breast to breast sjjontancMUs ran 

The mutual thought, — we stood aiul iih.-dged 

" The milk we drink is not more pure, 
Sweet Mary, — bless those budding chaiTOS ! - 

Than your own generous heart, 1 'm sure. 
Nor whiter than the bi'east it warms ! " 

She turned and gazed, unused to hear 
Such language in that homely glen ; 

But, Mary, you have naught to fear. 
Though smilerl on liy two stranger-men. 

Not for a crown would I alarm 
Your virgin pride by word or sign, 

Nor need a painful bhish <Usann 

My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. 

Her simi)lp heart could not but feel 

The words we spoke weie free from guile ; 

She stooped, she blushed, she fi.ved her wheel,- 
'T is all in vain, — she can't but smile ! 

.lust like sweet Ajiril's dawn appears 
Her modest face, ■ • I see it yet, — 

And though T lived a hundred years 
Methinks I never could forget 

The pleasure that, despite her heart, 
I'"ills all lier downcast eyc^s with light. 

The lips reluctantly ajiart, 

Tlie wliite teeth struggling into sight, 

The dimples eddying o'er her cheek, — 
The rosy cheek won't be still ; — 

0, who could lilanie what flatterers s])cak. 
Did smiles like this reward their skill < 

For such another smile, I vow. 

Though loudly beats the midnight rain, 

I 'd take the mountain-side e'en now. 
And walk to Luggolaw again ! 

samuft. Fe 

She stood breast high amid the com, 
f'lasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun. 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripimed ; — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born. 
Like red poppies grown with com. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, — 
Which were blackest none could tell ; 
Hut long laslies veiled a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stocks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure, I said. Heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 
Share my harvest and my home. 


Shk dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove ; 
A maid whom there wen; none to praise. 

And very few to love. 

A violet by a stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy cca.sed to be ; 
But she is in her gi'ave, and 0, 

The dilfercnce to me ! 

William Wordsworth 


SwEEr Highland Girl, a very sliower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 

Twice .seven consenting years have sheil 

Their utmost bounty on thy head : 

And these gray rocks, this household law^l, 

These trees, — a veil just half withdrawn, — 

This fall of water that doth make 

A murmur near the silent lake. 

This little bay, a quiet road 

That holds in shelter thy abode ; 

In truth together ye do seem 

Like something fashioned in a dream ; 

Such forms as from their covert peep 

When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 







IVit fair ('iTiiture ! in the light 
Of common dny so hriivi'iily hi'ight, 
1 blfss thfi', Vision us thon «i't, 
I bU'ss thoo with a luimnn lii'iirt : 
Coil sliifkl tliee to tJiy hiti-st y.'iu-s ! 
1 noitln'i' know theo nor tliy |iiicrs ; 
And yet my eyes aiv tilled witli teal's. 

With oarnest feeling 1 shall pray 
For thee when 1 am lai' away ; 
For never saw 1 mien or face 
In which moiv [ilainly 1 eould trace 
Benignity and home-lm'd sense 
Kipening in perleet innoeenee. 
Here scattered like a random seed, 
lu'Uioti' I'nnn men, thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shaniefaeedness : 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The frt«edom of a mountaineer ; 
A faee witll gladness overspread. 
Soft smiles, by liunian kindness bred ; 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restraint, lint such as springs 
Fivni (piick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few woixls of Knglish speech, — 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gi'stun's grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
Seen binls of tempest-loving kind. 
Thus beating up against the w ind. 

What hand Imt would a giirland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful ■ 

happy ploasuiv ! heiv to dwell 
Beside theo in some heathy dell ; 
Adopt your homely ways and drt-ss, 
A shepheixl, thou a shepheixless ! 
But 1 could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality : 

Tliou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea ; and 1 would have 
Some claim u)ion thee, if 1 could. 
Though but of con\mon neighborhood. 
What joy to hear thee, ami to see ! 
Thy elder brother I would Ik-. 
Thy father, - anything to thee. 

Now thanks to Heaven I that of its grac' 
Hath led me to this lonely place ; 
Joy have 1 had ; and going hence 

1 bear away my rt>eompense. 

In spots like these it is we prize 
Onr Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
Then why should I be loath to stir » 
1 feel this place was made for her ; 

To give new pleasure like the past, 

(."ontinued long as life shall last. 

Nor am 1 loath, though pleased al heart. 

Sweet Highland Girl ! from tlice to piirt 

For I, methinks, till I grow old 

As fair before me shall behold 

As I do now, the cabin small, 

The lake, the liay, the waterfall ; 

And thee, the spirit of them all ! 


Jenny kissed me when we met, 
.lumping from the chair she sat in. 

Time, you thief I who love to get 
Sweets into your list, juit that in. 

Say 1 'm weary, say 1 'm sad ; 

Say that health and wealth have missed me 

Say 1 'm growing old, but add — 

Jennv kissed me ! 

"Yot'NO, gay, and fortunate!" Each yields a 

And, first, thy youth ; what says it to gray hairs > 
Nareissa. I in hecome thy pupil now ; 
F.arly, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew. 
She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven. 


Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade. 

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid, — 

Silent and chaste, she steals along. 

Far from the world's gay, busy throng ; 

With gentle yet i>revailing force. 

Intent upon her destined course ; 

Graceful and useful all slie does. 

Blessing and blest where'er she goes ; 

Pure-bosomed as that watery glass. 

And Heaven ivllected in her face. 



Thky sat and oomlied their beautiful hair. 
Their long, bright tresses, one by one. 

As they laughed and talked in the chamWr there, 
After the revel was done. 

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille, 
1 Idlv thev laughed, like other girls. 





Who over the fire, when all is still, 
Comb out their braids aiiJ curls. 

Kobe of satin and Brussels lace. 
Knots of Howers and ribbons, too, 

Scattered about ill every place. 
For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Mad;;e in robes of white, 
The [irettiest nightgowns under the sun, 

Stockinglcss, slipperle-ss, .sit in the night, 
For the revel is done, — 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 

Those wonderful waves of brown and gold. 

Till the fire is out in the chamber there, 
And the little bare feet are cold. 

Then out of the gathering winter chill, 
All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather. 

While the lire is out and the house is still, 
Maud and Madge together, — 

Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
The prettiest nightgowns under the sun. 

Curtained away from the chilly night. 
After the revel is done, — 

Float along in a splendid dream, 
To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, 

While a thousand lusters shimmering stream 
In a palace's grand .saloon. 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 
Tropii:al odors sweeter than musk, 

Men and women with l>cautiful faces, 
And eyes of tropical dusk, — 

And one face shining out like a star. 
One face haunting the dreams of each, 

And one voice, sweeter than others are. 
Breaking into silvery speech, — 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom. 

An old, old story over again, 
As down the royal bannered room. 

To the golden gittern's strain. 

Two and two, they dreamily walk. 
While an unseen spirit walks beside, 

And all unheard in the lovers' talk. 
He claimeth one for a bride. 

Maud and Madge, drsam on together, 
Witli never a pang of jealous fear ! 

For, en- the bitter St. Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year. 

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, 
Braided brown hair and golden tress, 

There '11 be only one of you left for the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press, — 

Only one for the bridal pearls. 

The robe of satin and Brussels lace, — 

Only one to blush through her curls 
At the sight of a lover's face. 

beautiful Madge, in your bridal white. 
For you the revel has begun ; 

But for her who sleeps in your arms to-niglit 
The revel of Life is done ! 

But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss. 
Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 

beautiful Maud, you 'II never miss 
The kisses another hath won ! 

Nora I'ekkv 


I 'm in love with neighbor Nelly, 

Though I know slie 's only ten, 
While, alas ! I 'm eight-and-forty 

And the inarriedest of men ! 
1 've a wife who weighs me double, 

I 've three daughters all with beavx : 
1 've a son with noble whiskers. 

Who at me turns up his nose. 

Though a sfpiare-toes, and a fogey, 

Still I 've sunshine in my heart ; 
Still I 'm fond of cakes and marbles, 

Can ap|)rociate a tart. 
I can love my neighbor Nelly 

Just as though I were a boy : 
I could han<l her nuts and apples 

From my depths of corduroy. 

She is tall, and growing taller. 

She is vigorous of limb ; 
(You should see her play at cricket, 

With her little brother .lim.) 
She has eyes as blue as damsons, 

She has pounds of auburn curls. 
She regrets the game of leap-frog 

Is prohibited to girls. 

I adore my neighbor Nelly, 

I invite her in to tea ; 
And I let her nurse the baby, — 

All her pretty ways to see. 
Such a darling bud of woman, 

Yet remote from any teens, — 
I have leajnt from neighbor Nelly 

What the girl's doll-instinct means. 





0, to see li(>r willi tlio Imhy ! 

Ill- iuloii's lioi' inoiv tliim I, — 
How sill' clnMHso.s his I'lwviuj;, — 

llmv shi' liiislu'.i ovovv orv ! 
llviw slu' lov.<s to i>it liis .liiuplos 

Willi lii-r lixhl IVm'liiijsiM- ilwp ! 
Iltiw !ihi> liiHiKt.') to lilt' in ti'iiiiii|>h 

\Vl\t>ii slu> "s jjot liiiii I'lV to slvop I 

\Vi< iimat ixii'l, my ni'if{lil>iii' Ni'tly, 
Kor till' smiinu'ix i|»ii'kly lloo ; 

Ami yoni' miilitlo-«j;t>>l mliuiiw 
Must sui>pliiiit<-il nuii'kly lio. 

Yot lis joaloiis IIS II iiiotlii'i'. 

A ilislomiwii'il. I'liiiki'ixil oliurl, 

1 liHik viiiiily for tlio sottiiijf 

To 111' WOl'lllY Slll'll II IH'llI'l. 


1 l.nVK lo look on 11 si'oin' like lliis. 

0( will! mill ,'nivli'ss (iluy. 
Ami pi'i-siiiuU' iiiysolf llitit 1 «m not old 

Ami iiiY looks mv not y<>t jii'ay ! 
Kor it stirs tlio Mooil in iiii oUl mini's Iwirt. 

Ami it iiiiikos liis piilsos lly. 
To I'lilili tlio tlirill ot II liii|'l>,v voioo. 

Ami till' lljtlit of II (lUviisniil cyo. 

I liiivo walkoil tlio world lor foui'soorp Vfars ; 

Ami tlu-y siiy tlmt I iiiii old. 
And my litiirt is riiH> lor tlio ivnuov lloatli. 

And my ywirs mv woUiii>;li told : 
It is very trilo ; it is vory tnio ; 

1 mil old, iiml I liidi' mv time; 
lUit my lioirt will l«i|i at a .-ooiio liko this. 

And I half n'liow my iiriiiio. 

Miiy on, piny mi ; 1 am with you tlipro, 

111 tlio miilst of your niorry ring ; 
1 01111 fool llio tliriU of ttio during jiinii', 

And llio rush of Uio l.roalliloss swiiii;. 
I Irnlo Willi von in llio friigraiit liny, 

And 1 wlii'op Uiosniotliorod oiill; 
And my foot slip U|i on tlio soody Moor, 

Ami I OHIO not for tlio lull, 

1 mil wiUinj; to dio wlion my tiino slmll ooiin', 

And 1 shall ho glad to gvi ; 
Kor tho world at host is ii woiiry plaoo 

And my |mlso is gi'lting low ; 
Hut tho gravo is dark, and tlio hoarl will fail 

III tivading its gloomy way : 
Ihit it wilos my lioart I'^nn its dn'ariiioss, 

To soo tlio young so guy. 


IT NKVKK rOMKS .\(1.\1N. 

TiiKui'. aiv gains for all our lossos, 

Tlioiv aiv K'llins for all our piiiii ; 
Hut wlion youlh, tho vlivain, doimvts, 
U tnko.s soiiiothiiig I'lvm onr hoarts, 
And it iio\i>r ooinos tigiiiu. 

Wo aix' st i\iiigt>i', and aiv K'ttov, 

I'ndor niaiiliood's stornor ivign ; 
Still wo fool that somothiiig swoot 
FoUowod youth, with Hying foot, 
And will novor oomo agiiiii. 

Soniot.hing lHviutil\il is \tiiiisluHl, 

,\nd wo sigh for it in vaiii : 
Wo iM'hold it owrywhoiv. 
On tho oiirtli, and in tho air, 

liut il novor oomos agnin. 














^ J .1 

J I ^ If ?^ 



■ n 







«5 y 


I ^ ^ 




"So ^ 









God's love and fiea'-t Iji- witli tliee, where 
Soe'cr this soft autunmul air 
Lifts the dark tresses of thy liair ! 

Whether through city casements comes 
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, 
Or, out among the woodland blooms, 

It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face. 
Imparting, in its glad embrace. 
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! 

Fair Nature's book together read, 

The old wood-paths that knew our tread, 

The maple shadows overhead, — 

The hills we climbed, the river seen 
By gleams along its deep ravine, — 
All keep thy niemor}' fresli and green. 

Where'er I look, where'er I stray. 
Thy thought goes with me on my way. 
And hence the prayer I breathe to-day : 

O'er lapse of time and change of scene. 
The weary waste which lies Ijetween 
Thyself and me, my heart I lean. 

Thou lack'st not Friendshijj's spellword, nor 
The half-unconscious power to draw 
All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. 

With these good gifts of God is cast 
Thy lot, and inaiiy a charm thou 
To hold the blessed angels fast 

If, then, a fervent wish for tlici- 

The gracious heavens will heed from me. 

What should , dear heart, its burden be ? 

The sighing of a shaken reed, — 
Wliat can I more than meekly plead 
The greatness of our common need ? 

God's love, — unchanging, pure, and true. 
The Paraclete while-shining through 
His peace, — the fall of Hermons dew I 

With such a prayer, on this sweet day, 
As thou mayst hear and I may say, 
I greet thee, dearest, far away ! 



Nine years have slipt like hour-glass sand 

From life's still-emptying globe aw^ay 
Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, 
And stood upon the impoverished land, 
Watching the steamer down the bay. 

I held the token which you gave. 

While slowly the smoke-pennon curled 
O'er tlie vague rim 'tween sky and wave, 
And shut the distance like a grave, 
Leaving me in the colder world. 

The old worn world of hurry and heat. 

The young, fresh world of thought and scope, 
While you, where beckoning billows tieet 
f.'limb far .sky-beaches still and sweet, 

Sank wavering down the ocean .slope. 

You sought the new world in the old, 

I found the old world in the new. 
All that our human hearts can hold. 
The inward world of deatliless mold. 
The same that Father Adam knew. 

He needs no ship to cross the tide. 
Who, in the lives about him, sees 

Fair wimlow-prospects opening wide 

O'er history's fields on every side. 

To Ind and Egj'pt, Rome and Greece. 

Whatever molds of various brain 

E'er shaped the world to weal or woe. 
Whatever empires wax and wane, 




— a 

l\i him tlmt Imtli not eyes in vain, 
Our villajis-uiiorocosui eun show. 

Coiuo Iwok oHi' anoiont walks to ti-ead, 

Pear liaimts ol' lust or seattored friends, 
Old Uarvaril's seholai'-liiotories i-ed, 
Wlieiti song and smoke and laughter si>ed 
'I'he nights to pivetor-haunted ends. 

Constant are all our former loves. 

Unehangvd the ieehouse-gii\Ued pond, 
Its heniloik glooms, its shadowy eoves, 
Wliei-e floats the root suid \iever moves, 

Its slope of loug-tauuxl given U'vond. 

Our old familiai's are not Uiid, 

Though snapt our waiuls and sunk our books ; 
They Kxkon, not to l>e gainsiiid, 
Wheif, ivund broad meads that mowers wsule, 

Tlu! Charles his ste»l-Wue sickle eivoks. 

Wheiv, as the cloudKngs eastwaixl blow, 
Fivm glow to gUnnn the hillsides shift 
Their I'lumtw of oivhaiil ti-ees arow, 
Their lakes of rye that wave and (low. 
Their snowy whiteweed's stunmer drift. 

Thei-e have we watehed the West unfurl 

A eloiul Byzantium newly born. 
With lliekering spires and domes of l>earl, 
.\nd vapoi-y surfs that crowd and curl 

Into the sunset's C.olden Horn. 

There, as the flaming Occident 

Burned .slowly down to aslies gray. 

Night pitched o'erhead her .silent tent. 

And glimmering gold fivm Hesi*r sprent 
Upon the darkened river lay. 

Where a twin sky but jnst before 

tVe(iene<l, and ilouble swallows skimmed, 

.\nd, fivm a visionary shore. 

H\iug visioiied t«H>s, that, more and more. 
Grew dusk as tluvse alx>ve were dimmed. 

Then casitwanl saw we slowly grew 

Cl««r-etlge<l the lines of roof and spire. 
While great elm-masses blacken slow. 
And linden-ricks their round hetids show 
Against a flush of widening tire. 

IXnibtfnl at first and far .way. 

The moou-flo<Kl cree^ts moiv wide and wide ; 
I'p a i-iilged beach of clondy gray. 
Cnrve^l round the east as round a Wy, 

It slijw and spreads its gradual tide. 

Then suddenly, in lurid mood. 
The uioou looms large o'er town and fieW, 

1 .\s upon .\dam, red like blood, 
'Tween hin> and Kden's happy wood, 
Glareil the commissioned angel's shield. 

Or let us seek the seaside, there 

To wander idly as we list. 
Whether, on rocky headlands hare. 
Sharp ceilai'-horns, like breakei-s, tear 

The trailing fringes of gray mist. 

Or whether, under skies full flown. 
The brightening surfs, with foamy din. 

Their breeze-caught forelocks Iwckwanl blown. 

Against the beach's yellow zone, 
Curl slow, and plunge forever in. 

And as we watch those canvas tower's 
I That lean along the horizon's rim, 
"Sail on," I '11 siiy ; " may sunniest hours 
Coiwoy you from this land of out's. 

Since from my side you bear not him ! " 

For yeai-s thrice three, wise Horace said, 

A jioem rare let silence bind ; 
And love may ripen in the sliade, 
Like ours, for nine long seasons laid 

hi deepest arehes of the mind. 

' Come back ! Not ours the Old World's good, 
i The Old AVorld's ill, thank God, uot ouis ; 

But here, far l>etter undei'stood. 

The davs enforee our native mooil, 
.\nd challenge all our maidier jxiwei-s. 

Kindlier to me the place of birth 
That fu-st my tottering footstei>s ti'od ; 

There< may be fairer sjvts of earth, 

' But all their glories are not worth 

The virtue of the native sod. 

' Thence climbs an influence more benign 

Through pulse iuul nerve, through heart and 

1 brain : 

: Sacreil to me those fibers fine 

] That first clasjied earth. O. ne'er Ih> mine 
The alien sun and alien rain ! 

These nourish not like homelier glows 

Or waterings of familiar skies. 
And nature fairer blooms bestows 
On the heajied hush of wintry snows. 

In iwstures dear to ohildhooiVs eyes, 

' Than where Italian earth receives 
The partial sunshine's ampler boons. 

Where vines can-e friezes 'neath the eaves, 

.\nd, in dark firmaments of leaves. 
The orange lifts its golden moons. 







O lio.sAMiiNU, thou lair ami jjoml 
And perfect flower of womanhood ! 

Tliou royal rose of June ! 
Why ilidst thou droop before thy time ? 
W'liy wither in the first sweet prime ? 

Why didst thou die so soon ? 

For, lookinj; luickward tliruuf^li my tears 
(}\\ thee, and on niy wasted years, 

I cannot choose but say. 
If thou hadst lived to be my guide. 
Or thou hadst lived and I Iiad died, 

'T were better far to-day. 

child of light, golden head ! — 
Bright sunbeam for one moment shed 

Upon life's lonely way, — 
Wliy didst thou vanish from our sight ? 
Could they not spare my little light 

From heaven's unclouded day ? 

friend so true, friend so good ! — 
Thou one dream of my maidenhood, 

That gave youth all its charms, — 
What had I done, or what hadst thou. 
That, through this lonesome world till now. 

We walk with empty arms ' 

And yet this poor soul Iiad l)cen fed 
With all it loved .-ind coveted ; 

Had life Ijcen always fair. 
Would tlicse dear dreams that ne'er depart. 
That thrill with bliss my inmost heart, 

Forever tremble there ? 

If still they kept their earthly place, 
The friends 1 held in my embrace, 

And gave to death, alas ! 
f'ould 1 have learned that clear, calm faith 
That looks beyond the bonds of death. 

And almost longs to pass ? 

Sometimes, I think, the things we see 
Are shadows of the things to he : 

That what we plan we build ; 
Tliat every hope that hath been crossed, 
And every dream we thought was lost, 

In heaven shall be fullilled ; 

That even the children of the brain 
Have not Ijeen born and died in vain, 

Though here unclothed and dumb ; 
But on some brighter, better shore 
They live, embodied evi'iiimre. 

And wait for us to cnnn-. 

And when on that last day we rise. 
Caught up between the earth and skies, 

Then shall we hear our Lord 
Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death, 
Henceforth, according to thy faith, 

Shall be thy faith's reward. 


I SAT an hour to-day, John, 

Beside the old brook-stream, — 
Where we were school-boys in old time, 

When manhood was a dream ; 
The brook is choked with fallen leaves. 

The pond is dried away, 
I scarce believe that you would know 

The dear old place to-day. 

The school-house is no more, John, — 

Beneath our locust-trees, 
Tlie wild rose by the window's side 

No more waves in the breeze ; 
The scattered stones look desolat • ; 

The sod they rested on 
Has been plowed up by stranger hands. 

Since you and I were gone. 

The chestnut-tree is dead, John, — 

And what is sadder now. 
The grapevine of that same old swing 

Hangs on the withered bough. 
I read our names upon the bark, 

And found the pebbles rare 
Laid up beneath the hollow side, 

As we had piled thi;ni there. 

Beneath the grass-grown bank, John, — 

I looked for our old sjiring. 
That bubliled down the aldcr-jiath 

Three paces from tlie swing ; 
The rushes grow upon the brink, 

The pool is black and bare. 
And not a foot for many a day. 

It seems, has trodden there. 

I took the old blind road, John, 

That, wandered up the hill, — 
'T is darker than it used to be, 

And seems so lone and still ; 
The birds yet sing upon the boughs 

Where once the sweet grapes hung. 
But not a voice of human kind 

Where all our voices rung. 

I sat me on the fenee, .bilin, 
That lies as in ohl time, 






Tho same lialf-paiiel in tho path 

Wo used so ol't to cliinl), — 
Ami tlioiiglit how, o'lT the luirs of life, 

t)Hr phiyinatt's had passed on, 
And left nie counting on the spot 

The faces that wore gone. 



(^iME, dear old conmide, you and I 
Will steal an hour fioni days gone by, — 
'I'lic shining days when life was new, 
And all was blight as nioining dew, — 
'I'll!' lusty days of long ago. 
When yon were IJill and 1 \v;is .loo. 

N'our name may Haunt a titled trail, 
I'roud !is a cockerel's rainbow tail ; 
And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tani O'Shanter's hickless mare ; 
To-day, old friend, remember still 
That I am Joe and yon are Bill. 

You ■\'i' won the great woihl's envied prize, 
,\ud grand you look in people's eyes, 
Aiih II (1 N. and L L. I). 
1 11 big brave letters, fair to see, — 
^■our list, old fellow ! o(V they go ! 
How are yon. Hill ! How are yon, Joe ? 


ve worn the judge's crmiued robe : 
ve taught your name to half the globe 
ve sung mankind a deathless strain ; 

N'oii 've made the dead )>ast live again : 


world iiiav call von what it will, 
iiul f are .loe and Hill. 


Tlie chairing young folks stare and say, 
".'^ei' those old Imtfers, bent and gi'ay ; 
They talk like fellows in their teens ! 
Maii. iioor old boys ! That 's what it means 
.\iid shake their "heads ; they little know 
Tlic throbbing hearts of Hill and .Toe ! 

Ibnv Hill forgets his hour of pride. 
While Joe sits smiling at his -side ; _ 
How Joe. ill spite of time's disguise, 
Fiiuls the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and till 
.\s Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

.\h. pensive scholar, what is fame ? 
.\ titfnl tongue of leaping flame ; 
.\ giddy whirlwind's tickle gust. 
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust : 

A few swift years, and who cjin show 
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe ! 

The weary idol takes his stand. 

Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 

While gaping thousands come and go, — 

How vain it seems, this empty show ! 

Till all at onee his pulses thrill, 

'T is poor old Joe's " God bless you. Bill ! ' 

And sliall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears, — 
In some sweet lull of harp and song, 
For earth-born spirits none too long, — whispering of the world below. 
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe ? 

No matter ; while our homo is here 
No sounding name is half so dear ; 
When fades at length our lingering day, 
AVlio cares what pompous tombstones say ? 
Read on the hearts that love us still, 
Micjaat }oe. Hie jaect Bill. 


Till', path by which we twain did go. 

Which led by tracts that pleased us well. 
Through four sweet years arose and fell. 

From tlower to flower, from snow to snow. 

But where the path we walked began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope. 
As we descended following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow feared of man ; 

Who broke our fair eonipauioiiship. 
And spread his mantle dark and cold. 
And wrapped thee formless in the fold. 

And dulled the murmur on thy liji. 

When each by turns was guide to each. 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught, 
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with Siiecch : 

And all we met was fair and good. 

And all was good that Time could bring. 
And all the secret of the Spring 

lloved in the chambers of the blood ; 

I know that this was Life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared : 
.\nd then, as now, the day prepared 

The dailv hui-den for the back. 






liut tliis it was that mailo irii; move 

As lij;lit as carricr-binls in air ; 

I loved the weight I liail to bear 
Because it rieedcil helj) of Love : 

Nor <:oul(l I weary, heart or limb, 

When mij;hly Love "'ould cleave in twain 
Tlie ladin;^ of a single pain, 

And part it, giviii;,' liall' to him. 

Hilt I reniaiiied, hopes were dim, 
Whoso life, whose thoughts were little worth. 
To wander on a daikencd earth. 

Where all things round me breathed of him. 

fiiendshii?, eipial-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

saereil essenee, other form, 

solemn ghost, O crown!;d soul ! 

V'et none could Ijctter know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will ilemands 

Uy which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, though left alone. 
His being working in mine own. 

The footsteps of his life in mine. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met : 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty ho[ie3 that make us men. 

1 woo your love : 1 count it crime 
To mourn for any ov(!nniich ; 

1, the divided half of such 
A friendship as had mastered Time ; 

Which masters Time, indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears : 
The all-assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this. 

days and hours, your work is this, 
To hold me from my ])ro])er place, 
A little while from his embrace, 

I''or fuller gain of after bliss : 

Tljat out of distance might en.sue 

Desire of neaniess doubly sweet ; 

And unto meeting wdien we meet. 
Delight a hundred-fold accrue. 

The hills arc shadows, ami they (low 

From form to form, and nothing stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 

Like clouds they shape themselves aiul go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it trae ; 

For though my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 


" Wc take c-icli otiicr Uy the hand, and wc exchange a few wor<U 
and looki, of kindness, and wc rejoice together for a few shun iiirc 
inentti ; and tlion day4, months, years Intervene, and .. i: nee and 
know nothing of each other." — Wasimnoton Ikvino, 

Two barks met on the ileep mid-sea, 
When calms had stilled the tide ; 

A few bright ilays of sumnti^r glee 
There found them side by side. 

And voices of the fair and brave 
Hose mingling thence in mirth ; 

And sweetly floated o'er the wave 
The melodies of earth. 

Moonlight on that lone Imlian main 

Cloudless and lovely slept ; 
While dancing step and festive stiain 

Each deck in triumph swept. 

And hands were linked, and answering eye.* 
With kindly meaning shone ; 

0, brief anil passing symi>athies. 
Like leaves together blown ! 

A little while such joy was cast 

Over the deep's reimse. 
Till the loud singing winds at last 

Like trumpet mu.sic rose. 

And proudly, freely on their way 

The jiiirtiug vessels bore ; 
In calm or st/ii-m, by rock or bay, 

To meet () nevi-rmore ! 

Never to blenil in vii^toiy's cheer. 

To aid in hours of woe ; 
And thus bright spirits ininirle here, 

Such tics are Ibrmeil below. 

I-Rl.ICIA Mkmans. 

.lAFi'An, the Barmecide, the good vizier. 
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, — 
■laffar was dead, slain by a dor.m un.jost ; 
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistni.rt 
Of wdiat the good, and e'en the bad, might say, 
Ordaimtl that no man living, from that; day, 
.Should dare to sjicak his name on pain of death. 
All Arahy and I'ersia held their breath 






All but the bravo Mondeer ; he, jiroiul to show 
How fur for love a grateful soul could go, 
And facing death for very scorn and grief 
(For his great heart wanted a great reliefs, 
Stooil forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square 
Where once had stood a happy house, and there 
Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar 
On all they owed to the divine Jalfar. 

" Bring mc tliis man," the caliph cried ; the man 
AVas brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began 
To bind his arms. " Welcome, brave cords," 

cried he, 
" From bonds far worse Jatlar delivered me ; 
From wants, from shames, from loveless house- 
hold feai-s ; 
Hade a nnui's eyes friends witli delicious tears ; 
Restored me, loved me, put me on a par 
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar ? " 

Haroun, who felt tliat ou a soul like this 
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, 
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate 
Might smile upon another half as great. 
He said, " Let worth grow frenzied if it will ; 
'I'he caliph's judgment shall bo master .still; 
Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem. 
The richest in the Tartar's diadem, 
•And hold the giver as thou dcemest fit ! " 
"(lifts ! " cried the friend ; he took and hold- 
ing it. 
High toward the heavens, as though to meet his 

E.xclaimed, " Thi.s too, 1 owe to thee, .Tslfar !" 


Vi't. have been friends together 

In sunshine and in shade, 
Since first beneath the chestnut-tree 

In infancy we played. 
But coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow ; 
We have been friends together. 

Shall a light won! jiart us now ? 

We have been gay together ; 

We have laughed at little jests ; 
For the fount of hope was gushing 

AVarm and joyous in our breasts. 
But laughter now hath ficd thy lip. 

And sullen glooms thy brow ; 
We have been gay together. 

Shall a light word part us now ? 

We have been sad together ; 
We have wept with bitter tears 

O'er the gras.-.gni\Mi j,'i,ivcs where slumbered 

The hopes nl ,:,il\ vars. 
The voices uhi. 1, nmiv Mlenl then 

Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 
We have been sad together. 

Shall a light word part us now ? 

Caroline e. Norton. 


0, ASK not, hope thou not, too much 

Of sympathy below ; 
Beware the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains How : 
Few — and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so licet. 

It may he that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky 

Where the rich sunset burns ; 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring, — 

A dream, to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times, — 

A sorrowful delight ! — 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by night ; 
The wind that, with .so many a tone. 

Some chonl within can thrill, — 
These nuvy have language all thine own, 

To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not for this the true 

And steadfast love of years : 
The kindly, that from childhood grew. 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part. 
And watched through sickness by thy bed. 

Call hi.t a kindred heart ! 

But those bonds all perfect made. 

Wherein bright spirits blend. 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade 

With the same breeze that bend. 
For that full bliss of thought allied. 

Never to mortals given, 
0, lay thy lovely dreams siside. 

Or lift them unto heaven ! 



n". Qj 



There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters 

meet ; 
0, the last ray of feeling and life must depart 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my 

heart ! 

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, — 
0, no ! it was something more exquisite still. 

T was that friends, the beloved of my bosom, 
were near. 

Who made everj' dear scene of enchantment 
more dear, 

And who felt how the best charms of nature im- 

When we see them reflected from looks that we 

Sweet Vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love 

best ; 
Where the stoiTiis that we feel in this cold world 

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in 


Thomas Moore. 


They tell me I am shrewd with other men ; 

With thee I 'm slow, and dillicult of speech. 
With others 1 may guide the car of talk ; 

Thou wing'st it oft to realms beyond my reach. 

If other guests should come, I 'd deck my hair. 
And choose my newest garment from the shelf; 

When thou art bidden, I would clothe my heart 
With holiest purpose, as for God himself. 

For them I while the hours with tale or song, j 
Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme ; 

But how to find a fitting lay for thee. 
Who hast the harmonies of every time ? 

friend beloved ! I sit apart and dumb, — 
.Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine ; 

My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart 

.Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with 

Where simple rustics spread their festal fare 
And, blushing, own it is not good enough. 

Bethink thee, then, whene'er thou com'st to me. 

From high emprise and noble toil to rest, 
Jly thoughts are weak and trivial, matched with 
thine ; 
But the poor mansion offers thee its best. 

JULIA Ward Howe. 



Alas 1 they had been friends in youth : 
But whispering tongues can poi.son truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 

And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to Ije wroth with one we love 

Doth work like ma<lness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
With Iioland and Sir Leoline I 
Each spoke words of high disdain 

And insult to his heart's best brother ; 
They parted, — ne'er to meet again ! 

But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining. 
They stood aloof, the .scars remaining. 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 

A dreary sea now flows between. 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder 

Shall wholly do away, I ween. 

The marks of that which once hath Ijeen. 
s. T. Coleridge. 


Thou art to me most like a royal guest. 

Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof. 


A EtTDD\' drop of manly blood 

The surging sea outweighs ; 

The world uncertain comes and goes, 

The lover rooted stays. 

I fancied he was fled, — 

And, after many a year, 

Glowed unexhausted kindliness. 

Like daily sunri-se there. 

My careful heart was free again ; 

friend, my bosom said. 

Through thee alone the sky is arched. 

Through thee the rose is red ; 

All things through thee take nobler form. 

And look beyond the earth ; 

The mill-round of our fate appears 

A sun-path in thy worth. 

Me too thy nobleness has taught 

To master my despair : 

The fountains of niy hidden life 

Are through thy friendship fair. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 







11am. llonilio, llion lilt o't'ii iisjust i> num 
As I'lT my ooiivoitwlioii ('opml witluil. 

lloK, O, m_v Uoiii' liml 

Mam. Niiv, .lo not tliiiiK 1 lliiitcr ; 

Koi' what lulviuuTiiii'iil miiy 1 lioiu' IVoui tliri' 
Tlml no ivvonui' liiisl lull lliv >^»"l spiriis, 
To Iwil unci olollio tluv ? Wliv sluniia llu- i^or 

111' IlllltOlVll f 

No, lot tin- I'liiulit'il loujjui' liok ivlwunl pomii, 
Aiul oiMok lliii |iii'j»iiiuit liinj»t's of tlu' kinH>, 
WliiMvtlii'irt iiiiiy I'oUow I'liwiiiiij;. Post Ihouhoni'f 
Siiu'o my ilrur soul wus misttvss of lu>i' I'lioico, 
Aiiil ooulil of moil ilistiiijjnisli, liov olootioii 
Hulli souloil tlioo for lioi-solf ; for tlion liast boon 
As Olio, ill sult'oiiuj' all, llint ttiilVoi's nothing, — 
A mini tliat Foitiino's bnll'ots and ivwiinls 
lliist ta'oii with o<iual thanks ; ami Mossed are 

\VliosolihnHl«iid judgniont luv sowoll oo-niinnlod, 
Tlnil thoy aiv not a \i\v> for I'oituno's Wwgor 
To sound what stop silio jdoaso ; Oivo ino that 

That is not ^vassion's slavo, and 1 will woar him 
hi my hoiirt's ooi-o. ay, in my hoart ofhoart. 
As 1 do thoo. 

I Oroamt of oncountoi-s "twixt tlivsolf and mo, 
Wo Imvo boon down togothor in my sloon, 
I'nbuoklinj; holms, listinj; oaoli othor's tlirout. 
And wiikod half doiid with nolliiii;,'. Worthy 

Had wo no othor nunrivl olso to Konio, but Ihut 
Tlion art (homo Imnishod, wo would innstor nil 
Kivm twolvo to sovouty ; and, (louring war 
into tho binvols of niigriitol'iil Homo, 
liiko II \xi\d Hood o'orbour. 0, oomo ! go in. 
And tako our IViondly sonatoi-s by tho hands. 
Who now ai-o hoiv, taking thoir loavos of mo. 
Who am propirod your torritorios. 
Though not for Homo itsolf. 

.\ Ihousund woloomcs ! 
.\iul moiv II friond thiiii o'or an onomy ; 
Yot, Maivins, thut was miioh. 



tAitf\,ti«s the WJsclaii tv> Cftius Marv'ivis«s.l 

Ai'K, tt Maivius, Maivius ! 

Kaoli wm\l Ihoii hast sjioko hath woodod tivm mv 

•V iwl of aiioioiit ouvy. If .Iniiitor 
Should l'i\>m yond' oUnid spwik divino tilings, 

and say, 
""T isfruo," 1 M not Kdiovo thom nioiv than thoo, 
.\ll-noblo Maivius, Lot mo twino 
Mino arms aKnit that Kvly, whoiv-against 
I^ly gi-sumM ash an lumdii-d timos hath broke, 
\iid soaixil tlio nuwn with s|>lintors ! Uoro 1 clip 
Tho anvil of my swonl ; and do ivntest 
As hotly and as nobly with thy lovo. 
As over in ambitious stivngMi 1 divl 
l\ii»tond agjiinst thy \iiloi\ Know tlion lirst, 
1 lovod tlio maid 1 marriod : nowr man 
Sigluvl truor biiwth : but that I soo thiH< here, 
Tlion noblo tiling I morv dam-tw my rai>t hoiirt 
Than when I tii'st my W(Hldt>»l iiiistivss saw 
Ivstrido my tluwhoid. Why. thou Mai's ! I toll 

Wo have a jwwor on tWt ; and 1 had imrjx>s<< 
Onoo mor<> to how thy targ<>t fi-om tJiy brawn. 
Or hvso mino arm for 't. Thou hast Iwit mo out 
T^vol\•^' sovoral timos, and 1 h«vo nightly sinoo 


U" stoivs of dry and lollrn^d loro wo giiiu, 
Wo koop thom in tho moiiiory of tho biiiin ; 
Kainos, things, and faots, — wliato'orwo knowl- 

inlgKi oall, — 
Thoiv is tho oommon lodgi'r for thom «U ; 
.\iid imagi's on this oold snrfaoo traood 
Mako slight impivssioii, and aiv soon ollaood, 
l>nt wo 'vo a (mgo, moiv glowing and moiv bright, 
tin wliioli our frioiidshiii and our lovo to write ; 
That those may never fivni tho soul doinirt. 
Wo trust thom to the memory of the heart. 
Thoiv is no dininiing. no ort'iu'einont tlioix' ; 
Kaoh new (inlsation keo|>s the ivooixl clear ; 
Warm. g<>ldon lottoi-s all tho tablet till. 
Nor lose their luster till tJio heart stands still, 



WilEX to the sessions of swoot silent thought 
I summon up nnneuibninoe of things i>ast, 
I sigh the laok of many a thing 1 sought, 
.Vnd with old woes now wail my dear time's waste. 
Thou oan 1 divwu an oyo. unused to How, 
For |ir»'oions friends hid in death's dateless night. 
And wi-ep afivsh love's long sinoe eiuieoUed woe. 
And moiui th' exiH<uso of miuiy a \-anisheil sight. 
Then oan 1 grieve at grio\'!>m'es foregone. 
And heavily from woe to woo tell o'er 
The s!>d aeoonnt of fore-lvnuwnJ'd nuwn, 
Whioh 1 new jwy, as if not jviid Wforx' : 
Hut if tlio while 1 think on thee, dear friend, 
.\ll livssos ar\' rvstonvl, juid sorrows end, 







The half-seen memories of chil'lisli 'lays, 
When {rains and jjhiasures lightly came and went ; 
'I'Ik; »ym)athies of boyhood rashly sijcnt 
i II fearful wanderings through forbidden ways ; 
The vague, but manly wisli U) tr"««l the maze 
Of life to noble ends, — whereon intent. 
Asking to know for what man here is sent. 
The bravest heart must often jKiuitc, and gaze,— 
The linn rcstjlve to s<;ek the chosen end 
Of rnanliorxl's judgment, cautiomt and mature, — 
Kaeh of these viewless Ixinds binijii friend to friend 
With strength no selfish purjKisc can secure : 
My happy lot is this, that all attend 
That friendship which first came, and which shall 
last endure. 



"A TKMi'LB to Friendship," cri<;d Laura, en- 

" I '11 build in thin garden ; the thought id 

So the temple was built, and she now only want/jd 
An image of Friendship, to place on the shrine. 

.So she flewt^j the sculptor, who satdown Ixjfore her 
An im;ige, the fairest his art could invent ; 
but so cold, and so dull, that the youthful a/lorer 
Saw phiinly this was not the Friemlshipshe meant. 

"0, never," said she, "could 1 think of enshrin- 

An image whose lw)k» are so joyless and dim ; 

liut yon little goil u\xm roses reclining. 

We '11 make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of 

So the Ixirgain was struck ; with the little god 

She joyfully flew Ui her home in the grove. 
" Farewell," said the sculptor, " you 're not the 

first maiden 
Who came but for Friendship, and took away 

Love ! " 

Thomas mooke. 

1 HAD sworn to be a bachelor, she ha/l sworn to 
>* a maid. 

For we (juif! agreod in douMing whether matri- 
mony paid ; 

Besides, we lia/1 our higher loves, - fair w:'ikw.i. 

ruled my heart. 
And she said her young affections were all wound 

up in art. 

So we laughe'l at those wise men who say that 

friendship cannot live 
"I'wixl nuiii and woman, unless ea/.h has soiiie- 

thiiig more ti> give : 
We would Ije Iriemis, and frienilj) a» true a» e'er 

were man and man ; 
I 'd be a scond Uavi<i, and she ^li»s Jonathan. 

We ivMTiieil all wmtimental trash, — vows, kisses, 

tears, and sighs ; 
lligli fricmlship, such as ours, might well such 

childiith arts despise ; 
We likud each other, that was all, (juite all there 

W!i» to say. 
So we just shook hand« upon it, in a business 

sort of way. 

We shared our screts and our joys, t/^getlicr 

hoiH;<l and f'earcl. 
With common jiurjios*: sought the goal ttiat young 

Ambition ti^tcA ; 
We dreamed together of the days, the driyini- 

bright days to come. 
We were strictly confidential, and we called 'ach 

other " chum." 

And many a day we wandered together o'er the 

I seeking buj;s and butterflies, and she, the rained 

And rastic bridges, and the like, tliat picturc- 

niakei^ prize 
To ran in with their waterfalls, and groves, an I 

summer skies. 

And many a quiet evening, in hours of silent i-jw.. 
We iictiiWl down the river, or stroUwl >x;neath 

the trees. 
And talked, in long gradation from the yietH Ui 

the weather. 
While the western skies and my cigar burned 

slowly out together. 

Yet through it all no whispercl word, no U:]\- 

tale glance or sigh. 
Told aught of wanner sentiment than friendly 

We talked of love as oolly as we talked of 

And thought no more of being cme than we did 

of being Ihret. 






" Well, gvicKl by, chuiu ! " 1 took hor luuul, for Tho wonU cmuo lightly, tpivly, Imt ii givut soK 

the time hiul oouu> to J^>. just Miiiul, 

My J^>iug lupttut our ^wrtinj;, when to uu>et, w» Woiloil ujiwiiul with tt »toiy of ijuiio a dill'oi'eut 

vtivl uot know. kiuvl. 

1 had liu^oitnl long, »iul saiil fawwoU with a 

very heavy heart ; 
Far althouitli we were but />■«(;«<>•, "t is hajxl for 
houest iVieuds to ^wrt. 

" Gowl by, old fellow ! diui't foi'gxa your tVieuds 

Kiyoiul the sea, 
Aud some ilay, wheu you ve lots ol liuie, di\>j> a 

liue vU' two to me." 

Aud tlieu siie l'ais«^l her eyes to luiue, — great 

liijuid eyes of blue, 
Jelled to the briux, aud ruuuiug o'er, like violet 

cuiw of dow ; 
Oue louj!, long glaui-e. aud theu I diki. what 1 

never vlid MXu-e — 
Perhai>s the tam uu«nt tVieudship, but I 'm 

sure the Aiisif meaut uuuv. 

WU.l.l.*M U TBKKllir. 









When in the chronicle of wasted time 

I see description.^ of the fairest wights, 

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, 

In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; 

Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty'.s best 

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 

I see their antique pen would have expressed 

Even such a beauty as you master now. 

So all their praises are but prophecies 

Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 

And, for they looked but with divining eyes. 

They had not skill enough your worth to sing ; 

For we, which now behold these present days. 

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 



MisTRKSs mine, where are you roaming? 
0, stay and hear ! your true-love 's coming 

That can sing both high and low ; 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting I 
Journeys end in lovers' meeting, — 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love ? 't is not hereafter ; 
Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What 's to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no plenty, — 
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth 's a stuff will not endure. 




VhiLA. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red an 

Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on : 
Lady, you are the cruel' st she alive, 
If you will lead these graces to the grave. 
And leave the world no copy. 





Fair Portia's counterfeit ? M'lxat deini;; 1 1 
Hath come .so near creation? .Move liie^ir eyes ' 
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine. 
Seem they in motion? Here are severed lips. 
Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar 
Should sunder such sweet friends: Here in her 

The painter plays the spider ; and hath woven 
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, 
Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her eyes, — 
How could he see to do them ? having made one, 
Methinks it should have power to steal both his. 
And leave itself unfurnished. 




Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee. 
The shooting-starres attend thee ; 
And the elves also. 
Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

"So Will-o'-th'-wispe mislight thee. 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on thy way. 

Not making .stay. 
Since ghost there 's none t' affright thee ! 

Let not the darke thee cumber; 

What though the moon does slumber? 
The .stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 

I/ike tapers cleare, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
Thus, thus to come unto nie ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet. 
My soule I '11 pour into thee ! 








The fonviuvl violet thus liid 1 oliide: — 

Swwt thiof, whouco dklsl thou steal thy sweet 

that swells. 
If uot fivm my love's luvath ' the purple piide 
Whkh ou thy soft iliwk for couiplexiou dwells, 
111 my loves veins thou hast too gi-ossly dyeil. 
The lily 1 eoiidemutii for thy liaud, 
A»d buds of uuujoi-am had stoUu thy hair : 
The ivses fearfully ou thorns ilid siaud, 
One bhishiug shame, another white dos|iair; 
A thiitl, uor i\il nor white, had stoleu of Ivth, 
And to this ivbK-ry liad annexed thy bi-eath: 
15ut, for his theft, in pride of all his givwth 
A veugefid canker eat him up lo death. 
More tlowers 1 notetl, yet 1 none could see, 
But sweet or color it had stoU'u fix>m thee. 



How near to gootl is what is fair ! 

Which we uo soouer see. 

But with the lines and outwai\i air 

Our senses taken be. 

We wish to se* it still, and pivve waj-s we may deserve ; 
We court, we praise, we moif than love, 

We ai-e uot grieveil to serve. 

be.\ jonson. 

Like to Piana iu her summer weed. 
Girt with a crimson rolv of brightest dj-v. 

Goes fair Saniela ; 
Whiter be the flocks that straggling feed, 
W"hen washe*.! by .Xwthusa faint they lie. 

Is fair fiamela : 
As fair .\urora iu her morning gray, 
Deckevl with the ruddy glister of her love, 

Ts fair S;imela : 
Like lovely Thetis ou a cahueil day, 
WTienas her brightness Xeptuue's fancy move, 

Shines fair Sanu-Ia : 
Her tresses gold, her ej-es like glassy streams. 
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts ai-e ivory 

Of fair Samela : 
Her tfhe«ks, like rose and lily yield forth gleams, 
Her brows" bright aix-hes framed of ebony ; 

Thus fair Sttuela 
fair Venus in her bravest hue. 

And ,luuo iu the sliow of msyesty. 
For she "s Samela : 
I'iUlas iu wit, all thive, if you will view. 
For lieauty, wit, and matchless dignity. 
Yield to Samela. 



FKO.V "AN HOVKE-S KECKBA110.N Iti MVSlCliE.- 1(106. 

TuEKE is a gai\len in her face. 
Where i-oses and white lilies blow : 

A heavenly pju-ailise is that place, 
Wheivin all pleas)«ut fruits do gix>w ; 

Then- cherries grow that none may buy, 

Till cherry-rijie themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 

Of orient pearl a double row. 
Which when her lovely laughter shows. 

They look like iv>sebuds tiUeil with snow; 
Yet them no jieer nor prince may buy, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still. 
Her brows like bended bows do stand. 

Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
All that approach with eye or hand 

These sacreil cherries to come nigh. 

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Richard .\luso.\. 



I If this fair ixvse oftend thy sight, 

flacevl in thy bosom bare, 
'T will blush to find itself less white. 
And turn Lancastrian there. 

But if thy ruby tip it spy. 

As kiss it thou mayest deign. 
With envy jvile "t will lose its dye, 
1 And Y'orkisli turn .-tgiuu. 





Ah. my sweet sweeting : 

My little pretty sweeting. 

Mv sweeting will 1 love wherever I go : 

She is so proper and pure, 
Ftill, steadfast, stable, and demure. 

There is none such, \-ou may be sure, 
.Vs my sweet sw^eeting. 




icll tliiM, as lliiiikctli iiic, 
luiic .SI) jilcasaiit t(j my (;'e, 

'I'liat 1 ain ^jliid so ol't to see, 

As my sweet sweeting. 
Wild) I behold my sweeting sweet, 
Hit face, lier liands, her minion leet, 
'I'lii'V seem to me there is none so mete 

As my sweet sweeting. 

AliDVr all olhcr piaise must I, 
And luve my |Mc-lty l>yg.'inye, 
Fur none 1 lind .so womanly 
As my sweet sweeting. 


It was a beauty tliat I saw, — 
So [lure, so [lerfeet, as the frame 
I If all the universe were lame 

To that one figure, could I draw, 

(Ir give least lino of it a law : 
A .skein of silk without a knot ! 

A fair march ma<l(! without a halt ! 

A curious fiinn without a fault ! 
A printed book without a blot ! 
All beauty ! — and without a spot. 

lll.N Jo 


Give place, ye lovers, here before 

That sjjent your boasts and brags in vain 

My lady's beauty passeth more 

The best of yours, I dare well sayen, 

Than doth the sun the candle-light. 

Or brightest day the darkest night. 

And thereto liath a troth as just 

As had r.-ml..|ir the fair;' 
For wlial shi' sailli, yc may it trust. 

As it liy wiiliii;^' scaled were : 
Anil virtues hath .she many mo' 
Than I with pen have skill to show. 

1 lould rehearse, if that I would. 
The whole effect of Nature's plaint, 

When she had lost the perfect mold. 
The like to whom sho eould not paint ; 

With wringing hands, how she did cry. 

And what she said, 1 know it aye. 

1 know she swore with raging mind. 

Her kingdom only set a]iart, 
There was no loss by law of kind 

That eould have gone so neai' her heart ; 
And this was chiefly all her pain ; 
" She could not make the like again." 

.Sitli Nature thus gave her the praise. 
To be the chiefest work she wrought, 

In faith, methink, some better ways 
On your behalf might well be sought. 

Than to compare, as ye liav(' done, 

To matcli the candle with the sun. 



I'liiLLis is my only joy ; 

Faithless as the wind or seas ; 
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy, 
Yet she never fails to i)lease. 
If witli a frown 
I am cast ilown, 
i'hillis, sniiling 
And beguiling, 
iMakes me happier than before. 

Though, alas ! too late 1 lind 
Nothing can her fancy hx ; 
Yet the moment she is kind 
1 forgive her all her tricks ; 

Which though 1 sec, 

I can't get free ; 

She deceiving, 

I believing. 
What need lovers wish for more ? 



You meaner beauties of the night. 
That poorly satisfy our eyes 

More by your number than your light, — 
You common people of th'' skies, 
What are you when the moon shall rise ? 

You curicnis chanters of the wood, 

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays. 

Thinking your passions understood 

By your weak accents, — what 'a your praiso 
When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 

You violets that first ajipear, 

liy your j)ure purple mantles known. 

Like the ]irnud virgins of the year, 
As if the spring were all your own, — 
What are you when the rose is blown ? 

So when my mistress shall be seen 
In form and beauty other mind ; 

By virtue lirst, then choice, a queen, — 
Tell me, if she were not designed 
Tir eclipse and glory of her kind ? 








Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows. 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet ami fail- she seems to be. 

Tell her that 's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied. 

That hadst thou sjirung 
In deserts, where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty I'rom the light retired ; 

Bid her come forth. 
Suffer herself to bo desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee ; 
How small a part of time they share. 
That are so wondrous, sweet, and fair. 

EDMUND Waller. 


Yet, though thou fade. 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 

And teach the maid. 
That goodness Time's rude hand defies, 
That virtue lives when beautv dies. 


My Love in her attire doth sliow her wit. 

It doth so well become her : 
For every season she hath dressings tit. 
For Winter, Spring, and Summer. 
No beauty she doth miss 

When all her robes are on ; 
But beauty's self she is 
When all her robes are gone. 


On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
Wluch Jews might, and Infidels adore. 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends : 
Oft she rejects, but never once ofl'ends. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 

Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of ]iride, 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide ; 
If to her share some female errors fall. 
Look on her face, and you '11 forget them all. 



Oirx upon it. 1 have loved 
Tliree whole days together ; 

And am like to love three more. 
If it prove fair weather. 

Time shall moidt away his wings. 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on 't is, no praise 

Is due at all to me : 
Love with me had made no stays, 

Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she, 

Anil that veiy face, 
There had been at least ere this 

A dozen dozen in her place. 

Sir John suckling 


My only love is always near, — 

In country or in town 
I see her twinkling feet, I hear 

The whisper of her gown. 

She foots it ever fair and young. 

Her locks are tied in haste. 
And one is o'er her shoulder flung, 

And hangs below her waist. 

She ran before me in the meads ; 

And down this world-worn track 
She leads me on ; hut while she leads 

She never gazes back. 

And yet her voice is in my dreams. 
To witch me more and more ; 

That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems 
Less near me than of yore. 

Lightly 1 sped when hope was high. 
And youth beguiled the eJiase, — 

I follow, follow still ; but I 
Shall never see her face. 







Ali iinfcii I enter not, 
Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I liover ; 
And near the saered gate, 
With longing eyes I wait. 

Expectant ol' lier. 

The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rcnit 

And noise and Immniing ; 
Tlicy 've hushed the minster bell ; 
The organ 'gins to swell : 

She 's coming, coming ! 

My lady comes at last, 
Timiil and step])ing fxst, 

And hastening hither, 
With modest eyes downcast ; 
She comes, — she 's here, — she 's past! 

May Heaven go with her ! 

Kneel umlisturk-d, lair saint ! 
Pour out your pi'aise or jdaint 

Meekly and duly : 
1 will not enter there. 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute, 
Like outcast spirits, who wait, 
And see, through heaven's gate, 

Angels within it. 



She was a phan'^om of delight 
When first she gleamed ujion my sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
H,r ,vrs ;,s shirs of twilight fair ; 
Likr Th iliLiliis, too, her dusky hair ; 
r.iit all tliiiiL;^ else about her drawn 
From JIay-tinie and the cheerful dawn : 
A dancing shape, an image gay. 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food. 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death : 
The I'eason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel-light. 

William Woruswortm 


SllK walks in Ijcauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies. 

And all that 's best of dark and bright 
Meets in her ivspecl and her eyes, 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Wliich lieaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress 
Or softly lightens o'er her face, 

Will-re thoughts serenely sweet express 
Iliiw pure, liow dear their dwelling-place. 

Anil on that cheek and o'er that brow 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The .smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

liut tell of days in goodness .spent, — 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord bvro.n. 


The .stood at its equinox, 

And bluff the North was blowing ; 

A bleat of lambs came from the flocks. 
Green hardy things were growing ; 

I met a maid with shining locks 
Where milky kine were lowing. 

She w'ore a kerchief on her neck. 
Her bare arm showed its dimple. 

Her apron spread without a sjieck. 
Her air was frank and simple. 

She milked into a wooden pail. 
And sang a country ditty, — 



pojlMs of love. 



All iniiofi'ut I'oiul lovers' tiilo, 

Tliat WHS lull' wise nor witty, 
rallu'tirally nistinil, 

'I'lMi pointless tor tho city. 

Shi' kept ill timo without ii lient. 

As true ns I'huu'h-lu'U riiijjiirs, 
Uiiloss she tainiwl time with her feot, 

til' sciueezeil it with her liiigere ; 
ller eleiir, uiistuilieil notes were sweet 

As iimny a in-.ietii'eil singer's. 

1 stood a niimite out of sight, 

Stood silent lor a niiiuite, 
To eye the (lail, ami eieaniy white 

The frothing milk within it, — 

To eye the eomely inilking-inaiil, 

Herself so fresh ami ereaiiiy. 
"Oood (lay to you ! " at last 1 saiil ; 

She turned her head to see me. 
"tiood day ' " she said, with lifted head ; 

Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. 

And all the while she milked and milked 

The grave cow heavy-ladi'ii : 
I 've seen grand ladies, iihuned and silked, 

But not a sweeter maiden ; 

But not a sweeter, fresher maid 

Than this in homely eotton, 
Whose pleasant face and silky hraiii 

1 have not yet forgotten. 

Seven springs have passed since then, as I 

Count with a sol>er sorrow ; 
Seven springs liave come and passed mo by. 

And spring sets in to-morrow. 

I 've half a mind to shake myself 
Fi-ee, just for once, from London, 

To set my work u|>on the shelf. 
And leave it done or undone ; 

To run down hy the early train, 

Whirl down with shriek and whistle. 

And feel the Mull' North blow again. 
And mark the sprouting thistle 

Set up on waste patch of the lane 
Its green and tender bristle ; 

And spy the scan'e-blown violet banks. 
Crisp prinii'ose-leaves and othei-s. 

And watch the lanilw leap at their pi-anks. 
And butt their i>atient mothei-s. 

Alns ! one point in all my plaii 
My serious thoughts demur to : 

Seven yeare have passed for maid and man, 
Seven years have passed for her too. 

Porhaiis my rose is over-blown, 

Not rosy or too rosy ; 
Perhaps in farm-house of her own 

Some husband keeps her cosy, 
Where I should show a face unknown, — 

Good by, my wayside posy ! 



A VIOLET in her lovely hair, 
A rose upon her bosom fair I 

Hut 0, her eyes 
A lovelier violet disclose. 
And her ripe lips the sweetest rose 

That 's 'neath the ."-kies. 

A lute beneath her graceful hand 
Breathes iiinsie forth at her eommand ; 

But still her tongue 
Far richer music calls to birth 
Than all the minstrel power on earth 

Can give to song. 

And thus she moves in tender liglit, 
Tlie purest ray, where all is bright. 

Serene, and sweet ; 
And sheds a graceful influence rouud. 
That hallows e'en the very ground 

Beneath her feet ! 


Lo, when the Lord made north and south, 

And sun and moon oulained, he. 
Forth bringing each by woiil of mouth 

In oixler of its dignity, 
Did man from the crude clay express 

By sequence, and, all else decreed. 
He formed the woman : nor might less 

Than Sabbath such n work succeed. 

And still with favor singled out, 

Marred than man by mortal fall, 
Her disposition is devout. 

Her countenance angelical. 
No faithless thought her instinct shrouds. 

But fancy checkers settled sense. 
Like alteration of the clouds 

On noonday's azure permanence. 
Pure courtesy, composure, ease, 

Declare aft'eetions nobly fixed, 





And impulse sprung from due degrees 

Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. 
Her modesty, licr eliiefcst glare, 

The cestus ehuspiiig Venus' side, 
Is potent to dejeet the face 

Of him who would affront its pride. 
Wrong dares not in her presence speak, 

Nor spotted thought its taint 
Under the protest of a cheek 

Outbragging Nature's boa-st, the rose. 
In mind and manners how di.scrcet ! 

ilow artless in her very art ! 
How candid in discourse ! how sweet 

The concord of her lips and heart ! 
How (not to call tnie instinct's bent 

And woman's very nature hann), 
How amiable and innocent 

Her pleasure in her power to chann ! 

How humbly careful to attract. 

Though crowned with all the soul desires, 
Connubial aptitude exact, 

Diversity that never tires ! 



SWKET, be not proud of those two eyes, 
Which starlike sparkle in their skies; 
Nor be you proud that you can see 
All hearts your captives, yours yet free. 
I5e you not proud of that rich hair, 
Whifdi wantons with the love-sick air ; 
Whenas that ruby which you wear, 
.Sunk from the tip of your .soft car. 
Will last to be a precious stone 
When all your world of beauty 's gone. 





If it be true that any beauteous thing 
Raises the pure and just desire of man 
From earth to Ood, the eternal fount of all, 
Such I believe my love ; for as in her 
So fair, in whom I all besides forget, 
I view the gentle work of her Creator, 
I have no care for any other thing. 
Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvelous. 
Since the effect is not of my own jiower, 
If the soul dotli, by nature tempted forth, 
Enamored through the eyes. 
Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth. 
And through them riseth to the Primal Love, 
As to its end, and honors in admiring; 
For who adores the jMaker needs must love his 

From the of MICMABL ANGHr.o. 

by J. E. Taylor. 


The might of one fair Dice sublimes my love, 
For it hath weaned my heart from low desires; 
Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial (ires. 
Thy beauty, of joys above, 
Instnicts me in the bliss that saints approve ; 
For 0, how good, how beautiful, must be 
The Ood that made so good a thing as thee, 
So fair an image of the heavenly Dove ! 

Forgive me if I cannot tnm away 

From those sweet eyes that are niyearthly heaven, 

For they are guiding stars, benignly given 

To tempt my footsteps to the upward way ; 

And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 

I live and love in God's ]>eculiar light. 

From the nslian >,f yU':uM'.l. AsCl'.tx*. 
by J. n. TAYLOR. 


Love scorns degrees ; the low he lift^th high, 
The high he drawetli down to that fair plain 
Whereon, in his divine equality. 
Two loving hearts may meet, nor meet in vain ; 
'Gainst such sweet leveling Custom cries amain. 
But o'er its harshest utterance one bland sigh. 
Breathed jKission-wise, doth monnt victorious 

For Love, earth's lord, must have his lordly will. 
Paul II Haynr. 


Ok a hill there grows a flower, 
Fair befall the dainty sweet! 

By that flower there is a bower 
Where the heavenly muses meet. 




Ill ll\iil lunv.'l' IliiM't- is 11 rliiiir,'il iill iilioul Willi j,'"l'l. 

Wlirivaolli sil 111.- Iiiiivsl liiii- 
Tliiil ov.M' ,'v aul y.'t lu'lu.ia. 

ll is l-liillis, I'llil- .111.1 l.ii,«lil. 
Sli.' lluil is llu> sli.'lili.' j.iY, 

Sll,' lllMl .L'spil... 

Au.l .li.l Mill.! li.T lilll.' hoy. 

Wl... VV..11I.I lluil 111.'., u.luiirof 
W'li.i w.Mil.l lliis siiiiit'o* 

M'li.i imt lliis sislit lU'siiv, 
'rii.nif^li li.< lli.iuj{lil 1.1 sw' 110 iuou>y 

'rii.>ii I hilt Mil til.' slioiiliciiVs .1110011. 

l.ooU up.. II lliy lovo-si.'k swain! 
l\v Illy .'.miloil liiivo lioou s.vii 

IV'iul laou l.iHiiij;lit to lil'o njpiiii. 

NU 1101 AS l'.Kin\>N. 


I..1VK is a sioknoss full ..f woos, 

All ivmo.lios ivl'iisiiij; ; 
A (iltiiit tluil iinvsl willi oiiltinj; i;i\i\vs, hinvii with bost using. 
Why so » 
Mmo vv.' oiy.iy il. nmiv it .lies ; 
If not oigovo.l. il sij;liiiig ori.-s 

liovo is !i tonuoiil of tho niin.l, 

A t.'ini..-st ovoi'liistinj{ ; 
Ami .lov.' h:ith nitulo it of a kin.l. 
N.>l w.ll, nor full, noi- fasting. 
Why so' 
Xl.'ro wo oiijoY il, inoix> it tlios ; 
If not otyov.'il, it sighinj; oriosi 
lioigh-ho ! 

All ! WHAT IS l.OVK? 

All ! what is lovo > It is a |>ivtly thiiijj. 
As swfot unto rt sho|>hoi\l as a kill);, 

.\ml swootor too ; 
I'.iv kiiijpi havo oaivs that wait niion a oivwn, 
.\n.l .-aivsoaii inako tho sw.-otost faoo to fivwn ; 

Ah thou, ah tlion. 
If oounliy hn'os sn.h swoot >h'sii>'s jipiin. 
What huly wonhl not h>vo a shoi.ln'i\l swain • 

Ills Ihvks aiv fohUnl • ho oonu** homo at night 
As worry as a kinj; In liis dolijjht, 

An.l movrioi' t.n^ ; 
h'or kings tvthink thoin what tho stato i"(>.)uiiv, 
Whoiv shoi>hoi>ls. oaivloss, oMv^l hy tho liiv : 

Ah thon, ah thon. 

I U'.'oiiiidy lovo sii.'li swool ilosiros gain, 
What lovo a shi'iihoi'd swain '! 

llo kis.s.'lli liisl, Ili.'U silsasl.litlio to<>al 

His .■r.'iiiu iiii.l .ur.l as .I..II1 llu' king his iiu-al, 

Au.l lililhoi- (.... ; 
For kings liavo oflon foars wh.ii lli.'v su]>, 
Whoivslioi.lioiils .livail no in tli.'ir on|. ; 

Ah Ihoii, ah thon. 
If .'.niiitry lovos sn.'h shi>oI il.'.siri's gain. 
What hilly l.'vo a slu'iihonl swiiin ? 

Upon his ..f sliaw ho .sloops as s.niii.l 
.\s .hitli tho king upon his li.'.ls of .lowii, 

Moiv sonn.lor too ; 
Kor I'aivs .'iiuso kings full ofl tlioiv sl.'.'p l.isi.ill, 
Wlu'iv woary shophonlslio an.l snort llioir till ; 

Ah th.-ii, ah thou. 
If count ly lovos such swool ilosiivs gsiin. 
What huly wonhl not lovo a .shophoi.l swain ! 

Tlius with his wil'o ho siioinls tho y.miv as hlilli.' 
.\s (loth tho king at ovory ti.lo or sylli. 

Ami hlilhor too ; 
Kor kings havo win's ami broil, to tako in haml, 
Whon shojihoiils laugh, ami lovo upon tliolaml ; 

Ah thon, ah thon. 
If oountry lovos suoh swool itosiix>s gain. 
What would not lovo a swain I 

KvUIUR'r O.RUliNl:. 


Wiii;n Polia on tho plain apiH-ai's, 
Awoil hy a thousand tondor foal's, 
) wouhl appuwoh, but daix> not niovo ; — 
Toll nu>, uiy hoart, if this bo lovo. 

Whoiio'or slio si>oaks, my ravishod oar 
No othoi' voioo than hoi^ oan hoar ; 
No othor wit but hoi's appixno; — 
Toll 1110, my hoart, if this bo lovo. 

If .sho somo othor swain oommon.l. 
Though I was 01100 his londost frioiid. 
His instant onomy 1 provo; — 
Toll 1110, my hotirt, if this bo lovo. 

Whon sho is alvsont, 1 i\o moiv 
FH'lijjlit in all that j>U>as<Hl U-foiv, 
Tho oloaivst spviujt, tho sliadiost giwo; — 
Toll mo, my hoart, if this Iw lovo. 

Whon foiul of {xnvor, of iKVinty vain, 
llor nots sho spivad for ovory swain, 
1 stiwo to liato, but vainly strovo; — 
Toll mo, my hoart, if this V lo\-o. 

OlvOR.'.i;, l.ORlt L\TTRn 



• I.oi'f in a <,/r/ene»ji /uli a/ 7/w*. 
Ail reifiediet rf/uii'n^; 
A plant that most with tutting j/rovjt. 
Afoit barren mlih bat uting."" 






do, luippy Rose! and, iiilurwove 

With other llowers, bind luy love ! 

Tell her, too, she must not be 

Longer flowing, longei' free, 

'i'liat so oft Imth fettered nje. 

Siiy, if she 's fretful, I have bands 
Of pearl and gold to bind lier han<l3 ; 
Tell her, if she straggle still, 
1 have myrtle rods at will, 
For to tame, though not to kill. 

Take llicii my blessing thus, and go, 

And tell her this, — but do not so ! 

Lest a handsouK' anger fly, 

Like a lightning from her eye. 

And Ijurn thee up, as well as L 




Tei.i. me where is Fancy bred, 
Or in the heart, or in the head ? 
How begot, how nourished ? 
Heply, rejily. 

It is engendered in the eyes, 
With gazing fed ; and Fani'y dies 
In the cradle where it lies. 

Let us all ring Fancy's knell ; 

I 'U begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. 

Ding, dong, bell. 




If chance assigned 
Were to my mind, 
]!y every kind 

Of destiny ; 
Yet would I crave 
Naught else to have 

Hut dearest life and liberty. 

Then wen; I sure 
I might endure 
The displeasure 

Of cruelty ; 
Where now I plain 
Alas ! in vain, 

Lacking my life for liberty. 

For without th' one, 
Th' other is gone. 
And there can none 
It remedy ; 
If th' one be past, 
Th' other doth waste. 

And all for lack of liberty. 

And so I drive, 
As yet alive. 
Although 1 strive 

With misery; 
Drawing my breath, 
Looking for death. 

And loss of life for liberty. 

But thou that still 
Mayst at thy will 
Turn all this ill 

Adversity ; 
For the repair 
Of my welfare, 

Grant mc Ijut life and liberty. 

And if not so. 
Then let all go 
To wretched woe. 

And let me die ; 
For Ih' one or th' other, 
There is none other ; 

My death, or life with liberty. 
Sir Thomas wva 

My banks they are furnished with Ikjcs, 

Whose murmur invites one to slceji ; 
My grottos are shaded with trees. 

And my hills arc wliitc over with sheep ; 
I seldom havi^ met with a loss. 

Such health do my fountains bestow ; 
My fountains all bordered with moss, 

Where the harebells and violets grow. 

Not a i]ine in my grove is there seen 

I'ut with tendrils of woodbine is bound ; 
Not a beach 's more beautiful green, 

But a sweetbrier entwines it around. 
Not my fields, in the prime of the year, 

More charms than my cattle unfohl ; 
Not a brook that i.s limpid and clear. 

But it glitters with fi.shes of gold. 

One would think she might like to retire 
To the bower I have labored to rear ; 

Not a shrub that 1 heard her admire 
But I hasted and planted it there. 







^ * 

(> liow siulilon tl>o ji'ssninim' simvo 


is heart in me kiM'|is him ami me in one ; 

Willi 111,' lilii,', to iviiili'iil -iiy 1 

My heart in liiiii las tlu.uj^lits ami senses 

.\\iv:uly it rails for my lovo 

To |Miiin' till' Willi Inaiiilii's away. 


K'ni.les ; 
e loves my heart, lor oiu'P it was his own ; 

l''roiii till' [ilaius, tVoiii tlio wooiUaiuls, niul ^rovos, 
What stniiiis ol' wilil mi'loily Mow ; 


I eherish his heeanse in nui it hiiles ; 

y tnie-love hath my heart, ami 1 have his. 

How llio iiisjlilinjjiilos wailiU' llirii- lovos, 
Kroiii lliirUots of I'oM's tlial Mow 1 

- -♦ - 

AihI wlii'U lii'V laiglit form shall a|iinniv, 
Kiiili I'inl sliall liavmoniously join 

1 SAW 'I'WO I'l.lUMiS A'f MDHNINC}. 

Koi u I'oiioiit so soil nmi so ilcar, 
As slu' umy not ln> loiul to ivsij;". 

1 liavi- IVmnil out a gifl fof \iiy lair ; 

1 SAW two elomls at morninXi 
Tinj^'il hy the risinj; sun. 

Ami in the ilawn they lloateil on, 
Ami miufjleil into one ; 

1 liavo foiuul wlu'iv tlio \vooil-|iii;oous lirooil ; 
liut U'l mo llial i>limiU<r foiboar, 

I thought that niorniu}; eloml was blesseil, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

Slui will say 't was ii Uulmrous ilwil. 

l>'or lio iio'or ooulil lu> trmi, slu' iivoni-il, 

1 saw two sumnnu- eurvents 

Who oo\ilil mil a jiooi' liiixl of his youiij; ; 
Ami 1 IovihI l>or llir moiv xvluii 1 luaul 

l'"low smoothly to their meetinj;, 
Ami join their eoui-se, with silent foive, 

Suoh lomlonioss fall from l»-r loiij^iio. 

1 havoh.'anl li.-r with sw.vtm'ss iiiifoUl 
How that |iity was ihu' to a ilovo ; 

'I'hal it ovrratlouiliHl Ihc hohl, 

Ami sho i-alh'il it tlu' sistor of l.ovo. 

In (leaee eaeh other greet inj; ; 
Calm was their eoni'se through hanks of green, 
While ilimpling oiUlies nhiyetl between. 

Sueh be vour ginitle motion, 
Till life's last l>nlso shall beat ; 

I'mt lior wouls sm'h ii plrasmv I'onvoy, 

Like summer's beam, ami snmnu'r's stream. 

So murh 1 lii'V acoouts iuUm>, 
l.i't lu'r s|ii'ak, iiiul. whatovor sho sny, 

Float on, in joy, to meet 
.\ iiilmer sea, wheiv storms shall eease, 

Mi'thinks 1 shoiiKl lovo hor tlio moiv. 

A jmivr sky, wheiv all is j>eaee. 

Jiin.V l".. f. IIKAINAKO 

fail a luxsom so jjoiitlo ivmain 

I'umovi'il whon hor Ciivyilon sijjlis f 
Will a nyiuiih that is I'omi of the plain 


'I'lu'so iilaiiis ami this valloy iK'spiso f 
Ui-ivr ivgious of sih'iiio ami shaili> I 

Soft soonos oVoontoiitinont ami oiiso ! 
WhiMv 1 oo\ilil hi>vo (iloasingly stniyoil, 

Ir was a friar of oi\lei-s giiiy 
AValked lorlh to tell his Iwails ; 

Alul he met with a lady fair 
t'lail in a pilgrim's weeds. 

If aiij;ht in her iiKsonio oowhl ploaso. 

r>nl wlnMv iliMvs my rhyltiila stniy ' 
Ami whoiv ai-p liov j;rots anil hor Kiwora ? 

Aw tl\i> jjixivi-s anil llio valloys as jpiy. 
Ami tlio slu-iihoi\ls as j^Mitle as ours » 

"Now Christ thee .save, then nveivnd friar; 

1 pray thee tell to me. 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My trm'-love thon didst see." 

Thi> i;i\>vos may (vrhaivs K> as lair, 
Ami tlio lai'o of tlio valle\-s as lino ; 

"And how should 1 know your true-love 
Fivni tnany another one?" 

riio swains may in mannoi-s ivmiwit), 
l>nt tlu'ir lovo is not oqual to niino. 

" 0, by his eoekle hat, and sfalV, 
And l>y his -siindal shoon. 


— • — 

" r>ut ehielly by his I'aee atul mien. 
That weiv so fair to view : 

MY TKUK l.OVK H.\f)l MY tlKAKT. 

My tiui'lovo liath my hwirt, ami 1 Imvo his, 
r>y Just oxi'han_tf<' ono to tlio othor given : 

1 holil his iloar, ami mine lie oai\uot n>iss, 
Theiv never was a Ivtter Iwrjtuiu driven ; 

>ly trne-lovo hath my heart, ami 1 have his. 

His tlaxeti looks that sweetly enrlod. 
And eyes of lovely blue," 

*' lady, he is dead and gvme ! 

l,ady, he "s dead and g\>ne ! 
Ai\d at his head a given grass turf, 

And at his heels a stone. 







" WitJiin tliewi holy KloiiiUjilt long 

lib luiif;ui»lic<J, aii<l lie did, 
Lamenting of a la<ly'H luvi;, 

And 'plaining ol litr inidc. 

" Hero l)ore him Ijaicfau^/l on hi» bier 

Six proper youlliH and t:il], 
And many a war Ijedewwl his grave 

Within yon kirk-yard wall," 

"And art thoudea<l, thou gentle youth? 

And art thou dea/1 and gone f 
And diilKt thou die for love ol' me ? 

lireak, cruel licart of stone 1" 

"0 weep not, hwly, weep not m; 

Some ghostly wmfort (seek ; 
Let not vain wjrrow rive thy licart, 

Nor tear* lx;<lcw thy ehcik." 

"0 do not, do not, holy friar, 

My liorrow now reprove ; 
For 1 have lout the Kweet<;«t youth 

That e'er won laily'» love. 

*' And now, aU» 1 for thy sad loud 
I '11 evermore weep and sigh : 

For tlie<! I only wij>he<l Ui live, 
For thee I wish to die." 

" Wc*i> no more, lady, weep no more. 

Thy wjrrow in in vain ; 
For violetB plucked, the isweetetit (showers 

Will ne'er make grow again. 

"Our joys as wingW dreams do fly ; 

Why then should wjrrow last? 
8in(« giief but aggravates thy loss. 

Grieve not for what iii jKuit." 

" say not so, thou holy fiiar ; 

I pray th'se, say not so ; 
For since my true-love die<l for me, 

'T is meet my t«ar» shouhl (low. 

" And will he never come again 'f 

Will he ne'er come again ? 
Ah ! no, he is dea/1 and laid in his grave. 

Forever to remain. 

" His cheek was redder than the lose ; 

The comelicst youth was he ! 
But he is dead and laid in his grave ; 

AUs, and woe is me!" 

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more. 

Men were delivers ever : 
One foot on sea and one on land. 

To one thing constant never. 

" Ila<lst tliou Ijccn fond, he lia/1 U^en lal»<!. 

And left thee sail and heavy ; 
For young men ever were tickle foun<i. 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

" Now say not so, thou holy friar, 

I pray thw say not s*) ; 
My love he lia/l the truest licart, — 

O, he was ever true ! 

"And art thou d<^l, thou much-loved youtli, 

And diilsl thou die for me ', 
Then farewell home ; forcverniorc 

A pilgrim I will Ut. 

" Hut (irst upon my true love's giave 

My weary limbs I '11 hiy. 
And thric« 1 'II kiss the gri»:n-grass turf 

Tliat wi-a£»s his breathless chiy." 

"Vet stay, fair laily ; rest awhile 

liemsith this cloister wall ; 
S<;c through the liawthora blows the cold wind. 

And drizzly rain <ioth tall," 

" stay me not, tliou holy filar, 

stay me not, I pray ; 
No drizzly rain tliat falls on me 

Can wash my fault away." 

" Yet stay, fair lady, tiir/i again. 

And dry thow,- [xairly t/ars ; 
For s<«;, l>;neath this gown of gray 

Thy own tru<;-love ap|(eais. 

" Here forcwl by grief and lioj*l<;ss love, 

Tli<a>e holy wccls I sought ; 
And here, amirl thev; lonely walls, 

'fo end my "lays I thought. 

" But liaply, for my ywir of graee 

Is not yet jw"*"! away, 
Might I still ho|K; to win thy love. 

No longer would I stay." 

"Now farewell giief, and weh^jmejoy 

Once more unto my heart ; 
For since I liave found the/;, lovely youth. 

We nevennore will jrart." 



T/IKBP. is no worldly pleasure here ls;low. 
Which by experience doth not folly prove; 

But among all the follies tliat I know. 
The sweetest folly in the worhl is love : 






But not that passion which, witli tools' consent, 

Aliove tlie reason bears imperious sway, 
Making their liletime a perpetual Lent, 

As if a man were born to fast and pray. 
No, that is not the humor I approve. 

As either yielding pleasure or promotion ; 
I like a mild and lukewarm zeal in love, 

Although I do not like it in devotion ; 
For it has no coherence with my creed, 

To think that lovers die as they pretend ; 
If all that say they dy had dy'd indeed, 

Sure long ere now the world had had an end. 
Besides, we need not love but if we please, 

No destiny can force men's disposition ; 
And liow can any die of that disease 

Whereof himself may be his own phy.sician ? 
But .some seem so distracted of their wits. 

That I would think it but a venial .sin 
To take some of those innocents that sits 

In Bedlam out, and put some lovers in. 
Yet some men, lather than incur the slander 

Of true apostates, will false martyrs prove. 
But 1 am neither Iphis nor Lcander, 

I '11 neither drown nor hang myself for love. 
Methinks a wise man's actions should be such 

As always yield to reason's best advice ; 
Now for to love too little or too much 

Are both extreams, and all extreams are vice. 
Yet have I been a lover by report. 

Yea I have dy'd for love, as others do ; 
But, praised be God, it was in such a sort. 

That I revived within an hour or two. 
Tims have I lived, thus have 1 lov'd till now, 

And find no reason to repent me yet ; 
And whosoever otherways will do, 

His courage is a", little as his wit. 



Cell\ and 1, the other day, 

AValked o'er the sand-liills to the sea : 

The settins; sun adorned the coast. 

His beams entire his fierceness lost: 

-And on Tlie surface of the deep 

The winds lay only not asleep ; 

The nymphs did, like the scene, appear 

Serenely pleasant, calmly fair ; 

Soft felt her words as flew the air. 

With secret joy I heard her say 

That she would never miss one day 

A walk so fine, a sight so gay ; 

But 0, the change ! The winds grow liigh, 

Impeuding tempests charge the .sky. 

The lightning flies, the thunder roars. 

The big waves lash the frightened shores. 

Struck with the horror of the sight, 
She turns her head and wings her flight ; 
And, trembling, vows she '11 ne'er again 
Approach the shore or view the main. 

" Once more at least look back," said I, 
" Thyself in that large glass descry ; 
When thou art in good-humor drest. 
When gentle reason rules thy breast. 
The sun upon the calmest sea 
Appears not half so bright as thee : 
'T is then that with delight I rove 
Upon the boundless depth of love : 
I bless my chain, I hand my oar. 
Nor tliink on all I left on shore. 

" But when vain doubt and gi'oundless fear 
Do that dear foolish bosom tear ; 
When the big lip and watery eye 
Tell me the rising storm is nigh ; 
'T is then thou art yon angi'y main 
Deformed by winds and dashed by rain ; 
And the poor sailor that must try 
Its fury labors less than I. 
Shipwrecked, in vain to land I make. 
While love and fate still drive me back : 
Forced to dote on thee thy own way, 
1 chide thee first, and then obey : 
Wretched when from thee, vexed wher. nigli, 
I with thee, or without thee, die." 

Mattheu- Prior. 


Shall I tell you whom I love ? 

Hearken then awlule to me ; 
And if such a woman move. 

As I now shall vensifie. 
Be assured, 't is she or none 
That 1 love, and luve alone. 

Nature did her so nmch right 
As she scorns the helpe of art. 

In as many vertues dight 
As e'er yet imbraced a heart. 

So much good so truly tride. 

Some for lesse were deifide. 

Wit she hatb without desire 

To make knowiie how much she hath ; 
And her anger flames no higher 

Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
Full of pitty as may be, 
Though perhaps not so to me. 

Reason masters every sense. 
And her vertues grace her birth 




Lovely as all excellence, 

Modest in her most of inirtli : 
Likelihood enough to prove, 
Onely worth could kindle love. 

Such she is : and if you know 
Such a one as I have sung ; 

Be she brown or faiie, or so 

That she be but somewhile young, 

Be assured 't is she or none 

That I love, and love alone. 

WILLIAM bko\v.\ 


Love not nie for comely grace, 
For my pleasing eye or face. 
Nor for any outward part. 
No, nor for my constant heart ; 

For those may fail or tum to ill. 
So thou and I shall sever ; 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye. 
And love me still, but know not why. 

So hast thou the same reason still 
To d<ite upon me vvn: 


He tliat loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from starlike eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain liis fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay. 
So his dames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying tires : — 

Where these are not, 1 despise 

Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 

Thom.^s Care 



Love me little, love me lo:ig ! 
Is the burden of my song : 
Love that is too hot and strong 

Bumeth soon to waste. 
Still I would not have thee cold, — 
Not too backward, nor too l.iold ; 
Love that lasteth till 't is old 

Fadeth not in haste. 
Love me little, love me long ! 
Is the burden of my song. 

If thou lovest me too much, 

'T will not prove as true a touch ; 

Love me little more than such, — 

For I fear the end. 
I 'm with little well content. 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enough, with true intent 

To be steadtast, friend. 

Say thou lovest nic, while tliou live 
I to thee my love will give. 
Never dreaming to deceive 

While that life endures ; 
Nay, an<l after death, in sooth, 
I to theo will keep my truth. 
As now when in my Jlay of youth : 

This my love assures. 

Constant love i.s moderate ever, 
And it will through life pcrsever ; 
Give me that with true endeavor, — 

I will it restore. 
A suit of durance let it be. 
For all weathers, — that for me, — 
For the land or for the sea : 

Lasting cvenuore. 

Winter's cold or summer's heat. 
Autumn's tempests on it beat ; 
It can never know defeat, 

Never can rebel : 
Such the love that 1 would gain. 
Such the love, I tell thee plain, 
Thou must give, or woo in vain : 

So to thee — farewell ! 


I DO not love thee for that fair 
Rich fan of thy most curious hail', 
Though the wires thereof be drawn 
Finer than the threads of lawn, 
And are softer than the leaves 
On which the subtle spider weaves. 

I do not love thee for those flowers 
Growing on thy cheeks — love's bowers- 
Though such cunning them hath spread. 
None can paint them white and red. 
Love's golden arrows thence are shot. 
Yet for them I love thee not. 

I do not love thee for those soft 
Red coral lips I 've kissed so oft ; 
Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard 
To speech whence music still is 






Though from those lips a kiss being takeu 
Might tyrants melt, and death awaken. 

1 do not love thee, my fairest, 
For that richest, for that rarest 
Silver pillar, which stands under 
Thy sound head, that globe of wonder ; 
Though that neck be whiter far 
Thau towers of polished ivory are. 



I FILL this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone ; 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair that, like the air, 

'T is less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own. 

Like those of morning birds, 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, 

And from her lips each Hows 
As one may see the burdened bee 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her. 

The measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy. 

The freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft. 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idol of past years ! 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain. 
Anil of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain ; 
But memory, such as mine of her, 

So very much endears, 
Wlien death is nigh my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon. 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame. 
That life might be all poetry. 

And weariness a name. 



Faikee than thee, beloved, 

Fairer than thee ! — 
There is one thing, beloved, 

Fairer than thee. 

Not the glad sun, beloved, 

Bright though it beams ; 
Not the green earth, beloved, 

Silver with streams ; 

Not the gay birds, beloved, 

Happy and free : 
Yet there 's one thing, beloved, 

Fairer than thee. 

Not the clear day, beloved, 

Glowing with light ; 
Not (fairer still, beloved) 

Star-crowned night. 

Truth in her might, beloved, 

Grand in her sway ; 
Truth with her eyes, beloved, 

Clearer than day ; 

Holy and pure, beloved. 

Spotless and free. 
Is the one thing, beloved, 

Fairer than thee. 

Guard well thy soul, beloved ; 

Truth, dwelling there. 
Shall shadow fortli, beloved, 

Her image rare. 

Then shall I deem, beloved, 

Tliat thou art she ; 
And there '11 be naught, beloved. 

Fairer than thee. 



Genteel in personage. 
Conduct, and equipage ; 
Noble by heritage ; 
Generous and free ; 

Brave, not romantic ; 

Learned, not pedantic ; 

Frolic, not frantic, — 

This must he be. 

Honor maintaining. 
Meanness disdaining. 
Still entertaining. 
Engaging and new ; 




Neat, but not finical ; 
Sage, but not cynical ; 
Never tyrannical. 
But ever true. 


It is not Beauty I ilemand, 

A ciystal brow, the moon's despair, 

Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand. 
Nor meimaid's yellow pride of hair : 

Tell nie not of your staiTV eyes. 
Your lips that seem on roses fed, 

Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, 
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed, — 

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, 
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 

A breath that softer music speaks 

Than summer winds a-wooing flowers ; — • 

These are but gauds : nay, what are lips ? 

Coral beneath the ocean-stream. 
Whose brink when your adventurer slips 

Full oft he perisheth on them. 

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft 
That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? 

Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, 
Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 

Eyes can with baleful ardor bum ; 

Breath can poison that erst perfumed ; 
There 's many a white hand holds an urn. 

With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. 

For crystal brows, there 's naught within ; 

They are but empty cells for pride ; 
He who the Siren's hair would win 

Is mostly strangled in the tide. 

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, 

A tender heart, a loyal mind. 
Which with temptation I wonld trust. 

Yet never linked with error find, — 

One in whose gentle bosom I 

Could pour my secret heart of woes. 

Like the care-burdened honey-fly 
That hides his murmurs in the rose, — 

My earthly Comforter ! whose love 

So indefeasible might be 
Tliat, when my spirit wonned above. 

Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 



Three students were traveling over the Rliine ; 
They stopped when they came to the landlady's 

"Good landlady, have you good beer and wine? 
And where is that dew little daughter of thine ?" 

' ' My beer and wine are fresh and clear ; 
My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier ! " 
And when to the chamber they made their way, 
There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay. 

The fii-st he drew near, and the veil gently raised. 
And on her pale face he mounifulh' gazeil. 
"Ah ! wert thou but living yet," he saiii, 
" I 'd love thee from tliis time forth, fair maid 1 " 

The second he slowly put back the shroud. 
And turned him away and wei)t aloud : 
"Ah ! that thou liest in the cold death-bier! 
Alas ! I have loved thee for many a year I" 

The third he once more uplifted the veil, 
Anil kissed her upon her mouth so pale : 
"Thee loved I always; I love still but theo; 
And thee will I love through eternity ! " 

From the GerniAn of UHLAND. 
by J. S. DWIGIIT. 


Theke were three maidens who loved a king ; 

They sat together beside the sea ; 
One cried, " I love him, and I would die. 

If but for one day he might love me : " 

The second whispered, " And 1 would die 
To gladden his life, or make hini great." 

The thir-d one spoke not, but gazed afar 
W^ith dreamy eyes that were sad as Fate. 

The king he loved the first for a day, 
The second his life with fond love blest ; 

And yet the woman who never spoke 

Was the one of the three who loved him best. 


SosiE women fayne that Paris was 

The falsest louer that could bee ; 

Who for his [life] did nothing passe. 

As all the world might playnly see : 

But ventred life and limmes and all. 
To keepe his freend from Greekish tlirall : 
With many a broyle bee dearely bouglit, 
His [Hellen] whom hee long had sought. 






For lirst [Dame Venus] granted him, 

A galliuit gil'tc of Ueautiiis lleeco : 

Wliii'li lioldely tor to seeke to win, 

l!y suiging Seas lieo sayld to Greece : 

And when lie was arrived theare, 
Hy earnest sute to win his Deare 
No greater paynes niiglit man endure. 
Than Paris did for Hcllen sure. 

Besides all this when they were well. 

Both liee and sheo ai'ryn'd at Troy : 

Kiiigc jMenelaiis wrath did swell, 

And swore, by sword, to rid their ioyc : 

And so heo did for ten yeres' space, 
I lee lay before the Troy an face ; 
With all the hoste that ho could make, 
To bee ri^veng'd for Ilellcns sake. 

Loo ? thus much ilid pooiv Paris bide, 

Who is accounted most untrue : 

All men bee false it hath bin sayd. 

They think not what they speake, (say you) 
Yes Paris spoke, and sped with speede. 
As all the heavenly Gods de(-'reed 
.\nd prooud himselfo a louor iust 
Till stately Troy was turned to dust. 

I doo not reado of any man. 

That so much was unfaythfull found. 

You did us wrong, t' accuse us than. 

And say our freendship is not sound : 
I f any fault bee found at all, 
To womens lot it needes must fall : 
If Ilcllen had not bin so light 
Sir Paris had not died in light. 

The falsest men I can excuse 

That euer you in stories rcado : 

Therefore all men for to accuse, 

Methinkes it was not well decreede : 
It is a signo you have not tride 
What stedfastnesse in men dotli bide : 
Pint when your time alinl try them true. 
This juilgment then you must renue. 

I know not every mans devise 

But commonly they stedfast are : 

Though you doo make them of no price. 

They lireake their vowes but very rare : 

They will jierformo theyr promis well. 
And specially when' lone doth dwell : 
Where freendship dolh not iustly frame, 
Then men (torsooth) nnist beare the blame. 

O. R 

From " A porcious Gallery of Inucntions." 
Iiiipriiilcd m London, 1578. 


Nor ours the vows of such as plight 

Tlicir troth in sunny weather, 
While leaves are green, and skies are bright. 

To walk on (lowers together. 

But wo have loved as those who tread 

The thorny path of sorrow. 
With clouds above, and cause to dread 

Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 

That thorny path, those stormy skies. 
Have drawn our spirits nearer ; 

And rendered us, by sorrow's tics, 
Each to the other dearer. 

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, 
With mirth and joy may perish ; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
Still more and more we cherish. 

It looks beyond the clouds of time. 
And through death's shadowy jioital ; 

Made by adversity sublime. 
By faith and hope immortal. 


She moves as light across the grass 

As moves my shadow large and tall ; 
And like my shadow, close yet free, 
The thought of her aye follows me. 
My little maid of Moreton Hall. 

No matter liow or where we loved, 
Or when we '11 wed, or what IhI'mII ; 

I only feel she 's mine at last, 

I only know I '11 hold her fast, 
Though to dust crumbles Jloreton Hall. 

Her pedigree — good sooth, 't is long ! 

Her grim sires stare from every wall ; 
And centuries of ancestral grace 
Kevive in her sweet girlish face, 

As meek she glides through Morctou Hall. 

Wliilst 1 have — nothing; save, perhaps. 

Some worthless heaps of idle gold 
And a true heart, — the which her eye 
Through glittering dross spied, womanly ; 
Therefore they say licr heart was sold ! 

I laugh ; she laughs : the hills and vales 
Laugh as we ride 'neatli chestnuts tall, 
Or start the deer that silent graze. 
And look up, large-eyed, with soft gaze. 
At the fair maid oi' Murcton Hall ; 

We let the neighbors talk their till, 

Kor life is sweet, and love is strong, 
And two, close knit in marriage tics, 
The whole world's shams may \\A\ despise, • 
Its folly, madness, shame, and wrong. 







We are not proud, with a fool's priile, 
Xor cowards, — to Ije held in tliruU 

ISy pelf or lineage, rank or laml^ ; 

One honest heart, two honest li;uids, 
Are worth far more than Moreton Hall. 

Therefore we laugh to scorn — we two — 

The bars that weaker souls appall ; 
I take her hand, and hold it fast, 
Knowing she '11 love ine to the last. 
My dearest maid of Moreton Hall. 



Shall I love you like the wind, love. 

That is so fierce and strong. 
That sweeps all barriers from its [lath 

And recks not riglit or wrong ! 
The jjassion of the wind, love. 

Can never last for long. 

Shall I love you like the fire, love. 
With furious heat and noise. 

To waken in yo>i all love's fears 
Anil little of love's joys ? 

The passion of the fire, love, 
Whate'er it finds, destroys. 

I will love you like the stars, love, 

Set in the heavenly blue. 
That only shine the brighter 

After weeping tears of dew ; 
Above the wind and fire, love. 

They love the ages through. 

And when this life is o'er, love. 

With ail its joys and jars, 
We 'U leave behind the wind and fire 

To wage their boisterous wars, — 
Then we shall only be, love. 

The nearer to the stars ! 

R. w. ravmo.vd. 


Bkfoiik I trust my fate to thee, 
Or place my hand in thine, 

Before 1 let thy future give 
Color and form to mine. 

Before I peril all for tbec, 

Question thy soul to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret : 
Is there one link within the past 

That holds thy spirit yet ? 

Or is thy faith as clear and free 

As that which I can pledge to thee ? 

Does there within thy dimmest dreams 

A possible future shim:. 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 

Untouched, unshared by mine ? 
If so, at any pain or cost, 
0, tell me before all is lost ! 

Look deeper still : if thou canst feel, 

Within thy inmost soul. 
That thou hast kept a jiortion back, 

While I have staked the whole, 
Let no false jiity spare the blow. 
But in tine mercy tell me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fullill '. 
One chonl that any other liand 

Could bett<-i' wake oj- still .' 
Speak now, lest at some future day 
My whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit, change, 
Sliedding a passing gloi-y still 

On all things new and strange ? 
It may not be thy fault alone, — 
But shield my heart against thine own. 

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 

And answer to my claim. 
That fate, and that to-day's mistake, — 

Not thou, — had been to blame ! 
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou 
Wilt surely warn and .save me now. 

Nay, answer ?w/, — 1 dare not hear, 
The words would come tfra late ; 

Yet I would si>are thee all remorse. 
So comfort thee, my fate : 

Whatever on my heart may fall. 

Remember, I would risk it all ! 



"Yes," I answered you last night ; 

" No," this moniing, sir, I say. 
Colors seen by candleliglit 

Will not look the same by day. 

When the viols played their heat. 
Lamps above, and laughs below. 

Love me sounded like a 
Fit for yen or fit for tm. 






Call me false or call me free, 
Vow, whatever light may shine, 

No man on your face shall see 
Any grief for change on mine. 

Yet the sin is on us both ; 

Time to dance is not to woo ; 
Wooing light makes fickle troth ; 

Scorn of me recoils on you. 

Learn to win a lady's faith 

Nobly, as the thing is high. 
Bravely, as for life and death, 

With a loyal gravity. 

Lead her from the festive boards. 

Point her to tlie starry skies, 
Guard her, by your truthful words. 

Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true, 

Ever true, as wives of yore ; 
And her yes, once said to you. 

Shall be Yes forevennore. 



Because I breathe not love to everie one. 
Nor do not use set colors for to weare. 
Nor nourish special locks of vowed haire, 

Nor give each speech a full point of a groane, — 

The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the moane 
Of them who on their lips Love's standard beare, 
"What, he?" say they of me ; "now I dare 

He cannot love : No, no ! let him alone." 
And think so still, — if Stella know my minde. 

Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art ; 

But you, faire maids, at length this true shall 
finde, — 
That his right badge is but worne in tlie hearte. 
Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers 

prove : 
They love indeed who ijuake to say they love. 
SIR Philip Sid.ney. 


Never wedding, ever wooing. 
Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, 
Read you not the wrong you 're doing 

In my cheek's pale hue ? 
All my life with sorrow strewing. 

Wed, or cease to woo. 

Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, 
Still our days are disunited ; 
Now the lamp of hope is lighted, 

Now half ([uenched appears. 
Damped and wavering and benighted 

Midst my sighs and tears. 

Charms you call your dearest blessing, 
Lips that thrill at your caressing, 
Eyes a mutual soul confessing. 

Soon you '11 make them grow 
Dim, and worthless your possessing. 

Not with age, but woe ! 


Give me more love or more disdain ; 

The torrid or the frozen zone 
Brings equal ease unto my pain ; 

The temperate affords me none ; 
Either e.vtreme, of love or hate, 
Is sweeter than a calm estate. 

Give me a storm ; if it be love, 
Like Danae in a golden shower, 

I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 
Disdain, that toiTent will devour 

My vulture hopes ; and he 's possessed 

Of heaven that 's but from hell released ; 

Then crown my joys, or cure my Jiain ; 

Give me more love or more disdain. 

THOtlAS carew. 


FROM ■' AS 1 

Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 
'T is but a peevish hoy : — yet he talks well ; — 
But what care I for words ? — yet words do well. 
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 
But, sure, he 's proud ; and yet his pride becomes 

him ; 
He '11 make a proper man : The best thing in him 
Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue 
Did make offense, his eye did heal it up. 
He is not very tall ; yet for his years he 's tall ; 
His leg is but so so ; and yet 't is well : 
There was a pretty redness in his lip, 
A little riper and more lusty red 
Than that mi.\ed in his cheek ; 't was just the 

Betwi.xt the constant red, and mingled damask. 
There be some women, Silvius, had tliey marked 

In parcels, as I did, would have gone near 
To fall in love with him : but, for my part, 
I love him not, nor hate him not ; and yet 




I have more cause to hate him than to love him ; 

For what had he to do to chide at me ? 

He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black ; 

And, now I am remembered, scorned at me : 

I marvel, why I answered not again : 

But that '3 all one ; omittance is no quittance. 


Your fav'rite picture rises up before me, 

Whene'er you play that tune ; 
I see two figures standing in a garden, 

In the still August noon. 

One is a girl's, with pleading face turned upwards, 

Wild with great alarm ; 
Trembling with haste she binds her broidered 

About the other's arm. 

Whose gaze is bent on her in tender pity. 

Whose eyes look into hers 
With a deep meaning, though she cannot read it. 

Hers are so dim with tears. 

Wliat are they saying in the sunny garden. 

With summer (lowers ablow ! 
What gives the woman's voice its passionate 
pleading ? 

What makes the man's so low ? 

"See, love !" she muimurs ; "you shall wear 
ny kerchief. 

It is the badge, I know ; 
And it will bear you safely through the conflict. 

If — if, indeed, you go ! 

" You will not wear it ? Will not wear my ker- 
chief < 

Xay ! Do not tell me why, 
I will not listen ! If you go without it. 

You will go hence to die. 

"Hush ! Do not answer ! It is death, 1 tell you ! 

Indeed, I speak the truth. 
You, standing there, so warm with life and vigor. 

So bright with health and youth ; 

' ' You would go hence, out of the glowing sunshine. 

Out of the garden's bloom. 
Out of the living, thinking, feeling present. 

Into the unknown gljom! " 

Then he makes answer, "Hush ! 0, hush, ray 
darling ! 
Life is so sweet to me. 

So full of hope, you need not Ijid me guard it, 
If such a thing might be ! 

" If such a thing might be ! — but not through 

I could not come to you ; 
I dare not stand here in your pure, sweet presence. 

Knowing myself untrue. " 

"It is no sin ! " the wild voice interrupts him, 

" This is no open strife. 
Have you not often dreamt a nobler warfare, 

In which to spend your life ? 

" Oh ! for my sake — though but for my sake, 
wear it I 

Think what my life would be 
If you, who gave it first true worth and meaning, 

Were taken now from me. 

"Think of the long, long days, so slowly passing ! 

Think of the endless years ! 
I am so young ' Must I live out my lifetime 

With neither hopes nor fears ? " 

He speaks again, in mournful tones and tender. 

But with unswerving faith : 
' ' Should not love make us braver, ay, and 

Either for life or death ? 

"And life is hardest I my love ! my treasure ! 

If I could bear your part 
Of this great sorrow, 1 would go to meet it 

With an unshrinking heart. 

"Chilli ! child! 1 little dreamt in that bright 

When first your love I sought. 
Of all the future store of woe and anguish 

Which I, unknowing, wrought. 

" But you '11 forgive me ? Yes, you will forgive 
I know, when I am dead ! 
I would have loved you, — but words have scant 
meaning ; 
God loved you more instead 1 " 

Then there is silence in the sunny garden. 

Until, with faltering tone. 
She sobs, the while still clinging closer to him, 

" Forgive me — go — my own ! " 

So human love, and death by faith unshaken, 

llingle their glorious psalm, 
Albeit low, until the passionate pleading 

Is hushed in deepest calm. 







Will affection still infold me 

When the day of life declines, 
When old age with ruthless rigor 

Plows my face in furrowed lines ; 
When the eye forgets its seeing, 

And the hand forgets its skill, 
ind the very words prove rebel 

To the mind's once kingly will ; 

When the deaf ear, strained to listen, 

Scarcely hears the opening word. 
And the unfathoiued depths of feeling 

Are by no swift current stirred ; 
When fond memory, like a limner, 

Manv a line perspective casts, 
Spreading out our bygone pleasures 

On the canvas of the Past ; 

When the leaphig blood grows sluggish. 

And the fire of youth has fled ; 
A'hen the friends who now surround us 

Half are numbered with the dead ; 
K'hen the years appear to shorten. 

Scarcely leaving us a trace ; 
When old Time with bold approaches 

Marks his dial on my face ; 

When our present hopes, all gathered. 

Lie like dead flowers on our track ; 
When the whole of our existence 

Is one fearful looking back ; 
When each wasted hour of talent. 

Hardly measured now at all, 
Sends its witness back to haunt us. 

Like the writing on the wall ; 

"Wlien the ready tongue is palsied, 

And the form is bowed -n-ith care ; 
When our only hope is Heaven, 

And our only help is prayer ; 
When our idols, broken round us. 

Fall amid the ranks of men : 
Until Death uplifts the curtain, — 

Will thy love endure till then » 



She touched my shoulder with fearful finger , 
She said, " We linger, we must not stay ; 

My flock 's in danger, my sheep will wander ; 
Behold them yonder, how far they stray ! " 

I answered, bolder, " 'Say, let me hear you, 
And stUl be near you, and still adore ! 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling, — 
Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more ! " 

She whispered, sighing, " There will be sorrow 
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 

My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, — 
I shall be scolded and sent away ! " 

Said I, repl}-ing, " If they do miss you. 

They ought to kiss you when you get home ; 

And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you come." 

"They might remember," she answered, meekly, 
" That lambs are weakly and sheep are wild ; 

But if they love me, it 's none so fervent — 
I am a servant, and not a child." 

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me. 
And love did win me to swift reply : 

"Ah ! do but prove me, and none shall bind you. 
Nor fray, nor find you, until I die ! " 

She blushed and started, and stood awaiting. 

As if debating in dreams divine ; 
But I did brave them, — I told her plainly. 

She doubted vainly, she must be mine. 

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 
Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes ; 

And homeward drove them, we two together. 
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 

' That simple duty such grace did lend her. 
My Doris tender, my Doris true, 
That I, her warder, did always bless her, 
And often press her to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 
With love excelling and undefiled ; 
1 And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent. 
No more a servant, nor yet a child. 


I S-\T with Doris, the shepherd maiden ; 

Her crook was laden with ■i\Teatlied flowers ; 
I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling. 

And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap incloses 
Wild summer roses of faint perfume, 

The while I sued her, kept hushed, and hearkened 
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 


Early on a sunny morning, while the lark was 

singing sweet. 
Came, beyond the ancient farm-house, sounds of 

lightly tripping feet. 




'T was a lowly cottage maiden gouig — why, let 

young hearts tell — 
With her homely pitcher laden, fetching water 

from the well. 
Shadows lay athwart the pathway, all along the 

quiet lane, 
And the breezes of the morning moved them to 

and fro again. 
O'er the sunshine, o'er the shadow, passed the 

maiden of the farm. 
With a charmed heart within her, thinking of 

no ill nor harm. 
Pleasant, surely, wero her musings, for the nod- 
ding leaves in vain 
Sought to press their bright'ning image on her 

ever-busy brain. 
Leaves and joyous birds went liy her, like a dim, 

half-waking dream ; 
And her soul was only conscious of life's gladdest 

summer gleam. 
At the old lane's shady turning lay a well of 

water bright, 
Singing, soft, its hallelujah to the gracious morn- 
ing light. 
Fei'u-leaves, broad and green, bent o'er it where 

its silvery droplets fell. 
And the fairies dwelt beside it, in the .spotted 

foxglove bell. 
Back she bent the shailing fern-leaves, dipt the 

pitcher in the tide, — 
Drew it, with the dripping waters flowing o'er its 

glazed side ; 
But before her arm could place it on her shiny, 

wavy hair. 
By her side a youth was standing ! — Love re- 
jo. ced to see the pair ! 
Tonesof tremulous emotion trailed uponthemorn- 

ing breeze, 
Gentle words of heart-devotion wliisi)ered 'neath 

tlie ancient trees ; 
But the holy, blessed secrets it becomes me not 

to tell : 
Life had met another meaning, fetching water 

from the well ! 
Down the rural lane they sauntered. He the bur- 
den-pitcher bore ; 
She, with dewy eyes down-looking, grew more 

beauteous than before ! 
When they neared the silent homestead, up he 

raised the pitcher light ; 
Like a fitting crown he placed it on her hair of 

wavelets bright : 
Emblems of the coming burdens that for love of 

him she 'd bear, 
Calling every burden blessed, if his love but 

lighted there. 
Then, still waving benedictions, farther, farther 

off he drew. 

'E. 83 

While his shadow seemed a glory that across the 

pathway grew. 
Now about her household duties silently the 

maiden went. 
And an ever-radiant halo o'er her daily life was 

Little knew tlie aged matron as her feet like music 

What abundant treasure found she, f'elchingwater 

from the well 1 



Othello. 1 '11 present 

How I did thrive in this fair lady's love. 
And she in mine. 

Her father loved me ; oft invited me ; 
Still questioned me the story of my life, 
From year to year ; — the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
That I have passed. 

I ran it through, even from my boyish ilays, 
To the very moment that he bade me tell it : 
Wherein 1 spake of most disastrous chances. 
Of moving accidents by flood and llehl ; 
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly 

breach ; 
Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence. 
And portance in my travel's history : 
Wherein of antres vast, and deseits idle. 
Rough fjuarries, rocks, and hills whose heads 

touch heaven. 
It was my hint to speak, — such was tlie process ; 
And of the t'annibals that each other eat. 
The Anthrojiophagi, and men heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear. 
Would Desdemona seriou.sly incline : 
But still the house affairs would diaw lier thence ; 
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
She 'd come again, and with a greedy car 
Devour up my discourse. Which 1 ob.serving. 
Took once a pliant hour ; and found good means 
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, 
That I would all my [nlgi-image dilate. 
Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
But not intentively : I did consent ; 
-■Vnd often did beguile her of her tears, 
\Vlien I did speak of some distressful stroke 
That my youth suff'ered. My story being done, 
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 
She swore, — in faith 't was strange, 't was pass- 
ing strange ; 
'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous jiitiful : 
She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished 
That Heaven had made her such a num : she 

thanked me : 

— w 






And liiule lue, if 1 had a Irieiid that loved her, 
I slmuld Uwh him liow tu Il-U my story, 
And tliut would woo hor. Ujioii this liiiit, 1 spaku 
She lovod mu for the dangers 1 had [lassod ; 
And 1 loved hor that she di<l jiity thorn, 
'i'lus only is tlie wilelu'rait 1 have used : 
Here comes the lady, let her wituess it. 


Follow m sliadow, it still Hies you ; 

Seem to lly it, it will pursue : 
So court a mistress, she denies you ; 

Let her alone, she will court you. 
Say, are not women truly, then, 
.Styled I'ut tlie shadows of us men ? 

At luoru and even, shades are longest ; 

At noon they are or short or none : 
So men at weakest they are strongest, 

IJut grant us perfect, they 're not known. 
Say, are not women truly, then. 
Styled but the shadows of us men .' 



Drawn out, like lingering bees, to share 
The last, sweet summer weather, 

Benealli the reddening maples walked 
Two rurilans li>gether, — 

A youth and maiden, heeding not 

The woods which round them brightened, 

Just conscious of each other's thoughts. 
Half h,'iiii)y and half frightened. 

Grave were their brows, and few their words 
And coarse their garb and simple ; 

The nuiiden's very cheek seemed shy 
To own its worldly dimple, 

For stern the tiiiic ; they dwelt with fare. 

And fear was oft a comer ; 
A sober April ushered in 

The Pilgrim's toilful summer. 

And stiTU tlieir creed ; tlu\v tarried hern 

Mere desert dand sojourners ; 
They must not dream of mirth or rest, 

God's humblo lesson dearnors. 

The tcmjile's sacred perfume round 
Their week-day robes was clinging ; 

Their nurth was but the golden bells 
On priestly garments ringing. 

Hut as to-day they softly talked. 

That serious youth and maiden, 
Their plainest words strange beauty wore, 

Like weeds with dcwdrops laden. 

The saddest theme had something sweet. 

The gravest, something tender, 
While with slow steps they wandered on, 

Mid summer's fading splendor. 

He said, " Ne.\t week the churrli will hold 

A day of prayer and fasting" ; 
And then he stoi)ped, and bent to pick 

A wdiite lile-cverlasting, — 

A silvery Idooni, with fadeless leaves ■, 

He gave it to lier, sighing ; 
A mute confession was his ghinee, 

Her blush, a mute replying. 

" Mchetabel 1 " (at last he spoke,) 

' ' My fairest one and dearest ! 
One thought is ever to my heart 

The sweetest and the nearest. 

" You read my soul ; you know my wish ; 

0, grant mo its fulfilling ! " 
She answered low, " If Heaven snules, 

And if my father 's willing ! " 

No idle passion swayed her heart. 
This (|naint New Knghind beauty ! 

Faitli was the guardian of her life, — 
Obedience was a duty. 

Too truthful for reserve, she stood. 
Her brown eyes earthward easting. 

And held with trendiling hand the wlnle 
Her white life-everlasting. 

Her sober answer pleased the youth. — 
Frank, clear, and gravely elu'crful ; 

He left lier at her father's door, 
Too hnjipy to be fearful. 

She looked on high, witli earnest plea. 
And Hc:i\c II M , iiH .1 iM-ight above her ; 

And wdieii sIm' ^In 1\ --["ike his name. 
Her I'allu'i piMi^.d her lover. 

An.l when, that night, she sought her couch 
With head-board high and olden. 

Her prayer was praise, her pillow down. 
And all her ilreams were golden. 

And still upon her throbbing heart, 

In bloom and breath undying, 
A few life-everlasting flowers. 

Her lover's gift, were lying. 





Venus' myrtles, frosh and green I 

() (.'iqiiil's liliisliing roses I 
Not oil your classic llowers alone 
The sacred light reposes ; 

Thoiifjh f;cntler care may shield your l)uds 
Kroin north-winds rude and blastin^^, 

As dear to liovo, those few, palo llowers 
or white life-evorhusting. 



Wriik I as li.iso as is the lowly plain, 
And you, my love, as hij,'li as heaven aliove, 
Yot should the thoughts ol' me your humlile swain 
Ascend to lumvon, in honor of my love. 

Were I as high as heaven above the ])lain. 
And you, my love, as humble and as low 
As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
Wlioreso'or you were, with you my love should 

Were you the earth, dear love, and 1 the skies, 
My love should shine on yo\i like to the sun. 
And look n])iin you with ten thousand (^yes 
Till heaven waxed Ijlind, and till tlie world were 

Whereso'cr 1 am, lielow, or else above you, 
Whereso'er you aic, my heart shall truly love you. 



All, how sweet it is to love ! 

Ah, how gay is young desire ! 
And what pleasing pains we prove 

When we first approach love's fire ! 
I'ains of love arc sweeter far 
'I'lian :ill other jilt^asurcs are. 

Sighs which arc from lovers blown 
Do but gently heave the heart : 

E'en the ti'ars they shed alone 
('me, like trickling balm, their smart. 

Lovers, when they lose their breath, 

lileed away in easy death. 

Love and Time with reverence use. 
Treat them like a ]ia.rting friend ; 

Nor the goldi;n gifts r(!fuse 

Which in youth sincere they .send ; 

For each year their jirice is more. 

And they less simide than before. 

Love, like spring-tides full and high, 
Swells in i^very youthful vein ; 

ISut each tide does less supply. 
Till they (|uite shrink in again. 

If a How in age ajijiear, 

'T is but ruin, and runs not clear. 


TiiK lire of love in youthful blood. 
Like what is kindled in brushwood, 

But lor a moment burns ; 
Yet in that moment makes a mighty noise ; 
It crackles, ami to vapor turns, 

And soon itself destroys. 

But wlien crept into aged veins. 
It slowly burns, then long rcnuiins, 

And with a silent heat, 
Like lire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long ; 
And though the llamo b(! not so great, 

Vet is the heat as strong. 

Laki, Ol' DOKSeT. 


Am, Chloris ! could 1 nr>w but sit 

As uni:oncerned as when 
Your infant beauty could beget 

No happiness or ]iain ! 
When I the dawn used to admire, 

And praised the coming day, 
I little thought the rising lire 

Would take my rest away. 

Your charms in hannlcss eliildliood Iiiy 

Like metals in a mine ; 
Age from no fa(-(! takes more away 

Than youth concealeil in thine. 
But as your charms insensibly 

To tlwiir fiei-fcc!tion jircst. 
So love as unjierccived did lly, 

And ccntereil in my breast. 

My passion with your beauty grew, 

Wliile I'lijiid at my heart 
Still, as his mother favonsl you, 

Threw a new llaming dart. 
Each gliu'i(«l in tludr wanton part ; 

To make a lover, he 
Employed the utmost of his art ; 

To make a l)eauty, she. 







'I'liM' wliii'li hi'v sUniilor wiiist I'liuliiuxl 
SluiU lunv my joyful tcuipli's hiiul ; 
No UHiuiuvli Imt would fjivo Ills iTown, 
His unns inii;lit ilo wlml lliis luilh iloiio. 

It was lUV luMVl'll's CNlliMlU'sl Splu'VO, 

Tlu' imU.\vlii,'h lioM lliiil lov.'ly Aw: 
My joy, my ijncr, luy liopf, my love, 
IH.l all within this riivlc move. 

A iianow ,-omi«ss ! an.l \v\ Www 
llwill all lliat 's -ooa, aii.l all lliat 's fail', 
llivo me tml what this rililion liouiul. 
Take all the test the smi goes I'ouiul I 


FROM '■ lllu llivi; ■■ 

■\ViiY, lovely eliarmer, tell me why 
80 very kiiiil, ami yet so sliy ' 
^\'hy lioes that eoli'l, I'orliiiUiiiif,' aiv 
(live liamiis ot' somnv ami despair f 
Ov why that smile my soul subdue, 
And kindle uji my llames anew ' 

In vain you strive with all your art, 
lly turns to lire and t'li'e/e my heart ; 
When 1 behold 11 liiee so lair. 
So sweet a look, so soft un nir, 
My ravished soul is ehnrmed lUl o'er, 
1 eamiot love thee loss or more. 



1 riilTllEl'. scud me Kiek my heart, 

Sinee 1 eanuot have thine ; 
V'or if from yours yon will not part. 

Why then shouldst thou have nduo ? 

Yet, now 1 think on 't. let it lie ; 

To timl it weiv in vain ; 
For tlion 'st a thief in either eye 

^Vould steal it baek asniiu. 

Why sluaild two hearts in one bivnst li», 
.\n,l yet not lodgt" totrether ? 

l.ove ! whore is thy syiuiwthy 
If thus our bivasts thou sever ? 

Hut love is sueh a mystery, 

1 eanuot liud it out ; 
For when 1 think 1 'ni Iwsl resolved 

Then 1 am most in doubt. 

Tlieu larewell care, ami farowell woo ; 

I will no lons;er pine ; 
For 1 '11 believe I have her heart 

As mueh as she has mine. 



ll'' doughty deeds my lady please, 

liighl soon 1 11 nu)uut my stood. 
And strong his arm ami fast his seat 

That bears I' uu' the nu<od. 
1 '11 wear tliy eolors in my eap, 

'I'hy pieture at my heart. 
And he that bends not to thine oyo 
Shall rue it to his smart ! 

Then tell me how to woo thoc, Love ; 

O, tell nui how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake mu' eare 1 '11 take, 
Though ne'er another trow me. 

If gay attire delight thine eye, 

I '11 diglit me in array ; 
1 '11 tend thy fhamber door all night. 

And squire tliee all the day. 
If sweetest sounds ean win thine ear, sounds 1 '11 strive to eateh ; 
Thy voiee 1 '11 steal to woo thysell, 

That voioo that nane oau mateh. 

l?nt if fond love tliy lieart ean g.dii, 

I never broke a vow ; 
Nae nuiiden lays her .skaith to me ; 

1 never loved but yon. 
For you alone I ride the ring, 

For you I wear tlie blue ; 
For you alone 1 strive to sing, 
("1. tell n\e how to woo ! 

Then tell nu' how to woo thee, l.ove 

0, toll mo liow to woo thee '. 
For thy dear sake nae eaix' 1 '11 take. 
Though ne'er another trow me. 
OK.\nAM or 


\Vhi-:n Love with uiu'onliu^d wings 

llo\vrs within my girtes. 
And my divine Althoa brings 

To wbisper at the grates : 
When 1 lie tangled in her hair 

And fetteivd to her eye. 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no sueh liberty. 

AVheu flowing eups nui swiftly round 
AVith no aUaving Thanu>s, 



'* J/ doughty (icctis my indy please 
Right soon I 'it mount my steed ^ 
And strong his arm and /ntt itis seat 
That Itears frae me the meed^ 


87 T 

Our careless heads with roses crowned, 
Our hearts with loyal flames ; 

AVhen thirsty grief in wine we steep, 
When healths and draughts go free, 

Fishes that tipple in the deep 
Know no such liberty. 

When, linnet-like confined, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how gi-eat should be, 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood. 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Xor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love. 

And in my soul am free. 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 


Welcome, jrclcome, do I sing. 
Far more welcome than the spring; 
He that parteth from you never 
Shall enjoy a spring forever. 

Love, that to the voice is near. 
Breaking from your ivoiy pale. 

Need not walk abroad to hear 
The delightful nightingale. 

Welcome, welcmnc, then I sing, etc. 

LoTe, that still looks on your eyes. 
Though the winter have begun 

To benumb our arteries. 

Shall not want the summer's sun. 
Welconw, welcome, then I sing, etc. 

Love, that still may see your cheeks. 
Where all rareness still reposes, 

Is a fool if e'er he seeks 
Other lilies, other roses. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing, etc. 

Love, to whom your soft lip yields. 
And perceives your breath in kissing. 

All the odors of the fields 

Never, never shall be missing. 

William Browne. 


Of all the torments, all the cares, 

With which our lives are curst ; 
Of all the plagues a lover bears. 

Sure rivals are the worst ! 
By partners in each other kind. 

Afflictions easier grow ; 
In love alone W'e hate to find 

Companions of our woe. 

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see 

Are lab'ring in my breast, 
1 beg not you would favor me. 

Would you but slight the rest ! 
How great soe'er your rigors are, 

With them alone 1 '11 cope ; 
I can endure my own despair. 

But not another's hoi«;. 


Heke is one leaf reserved for nu-, 
From all thy sweet memorials free ; 
And here my simple song might tell 
The feelings thou must guess .so well. 
But could I thus, within thy miud, 
One little vacant corner find. 
Where no impression yet is seen. 
Where no memorial yet has been, 
0, it should be ray sweetest care 
To write my name forever there ! 

Tho.\ias moore. 


A GIRL who has so many willful ways 

She would have caused Job's patience to for- 
sake him. 
Yet is so rich in all that 's girlhood's praise. 
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, 
A little better she would surely make him. 

Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon. 
And very far from angel yet, I trow. 

Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human ; 

Yet she 's more lovable as simple woman 
Than any one diviner that 1 know. 

Therefore I wish that she may safely keep 

This womanhede, and change not, only grow ; 
From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, 
And in perennial blessedness still reap, 

On every hand, of that which she doth sow. 
Dinah muloci 








Sleep ou ! ami dream of lleaveu awhile ! 

Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, 
Thy rosy lijis still wear a smile, 

Ami move, iiml breathe delicious sighs. 

Ah 1 now soft blushes tiuge her iheeks 
And mantle o'er her neck of snow ; 

Ah ! now she murmurs, now she speaks, 
What most I wish, and fear, to know. 

She starts, she trembles, and slu' weeps ! 

Her fair hands folded on her breast ; — 
And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 

A seraph in the realms of rest ! 

Sleep on secure ! Above control, 

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee ; 
Ami may the secret of thy soul 

Hemaiu within its sanctuary ! 

Samuf.l Rogers. 


Shk is not fair to outward view. 

As many maidens bo ; 
Her loveliness 1 never knew 

Until she smiled on me : 
0, then 1 saw her eye wa.s bright, — 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold ; 

To mine they ne'er reply ; 
And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye : 
Her vpiy frowns are better far 
Than smiles of other maidens are ! 

Hartley Coleridge. 



Hfiif. 's the garden she walked across. 

Arm in my arm, such a short while since : 
Hark ! now I push its wicket, the moss 

Himlei-s the hinges, and makes them wince. 
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, 

As back with that nnirmur the wicket swung ; 
Forshe laid the poor snail mychancefoot.spurned, 

To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

Down this side of the gravel-walk 

She went while her robe's edge bruslied the box ; 
And liore she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk-wliite phlox. 
Roses, ranged in valiant row, 

I will never think that she jxissed you by ! 

She loves you, noble roses, 1 know ; 

Hut yonder see where the rock-plants lie ! 

This Hower she stopped at, linger on lip, — 

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip. 

Its soft meandering Spanish name. 
What a name ! was it love or praise ? 

S[ieoch half asleep, or song half awake .' 
I must learn Spanish one of these days. 

Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 

Roses, if I live and do well, 

1 may biing her one of these days, 
To fix you fast with as fine a spell, — 

Fit you each with his Spanisu 
Uut do not detain me now, for she lingei'S 

There, like sunshine over the ground ; 
And ever I see her soft white lingei'S 

Searching after the bud she found. 

Flower, you Spaniard ! look that you grow not, — 

Stay as you are, and be loved forever ! 
Bud, if I kiss you, 't is that you blow not, — 

Mind ! the shut pink mouth opens never ! 
For while thus it pouts, her fingei-s wrestle. 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
Till round they turn, and down they nestle : 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen > 

Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 

Whither 1 follow lier, beauties llee. 
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June 's twice.! imesinceshe breathed itwith me? 
Come, bud ! show me the least of her traces. 

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall : 
Ah ! you may flout and turn up your faces, — 

Roses, }'ou are not so fair after all ! 

RomiKT Browning. 

WHY 7 

Why came the rose ? Because the sun in shining. 
Found in the mould some atoms rare and fine •. 

And stooping, drew and warmed them into grow- 
ing. — 
Dust, with the spirit's mystic countei-sign. 

'\\'hat made the perfume ? All his wondrous kisses 
Fell on the sweet red mouth, till, lost to sight. 

The love became too e.xquisite, and vanished 
Into a viewless rapture of the night. 

Why did the rose die ? Ah, why ask the question ? 

There is a time to love, — a time to give ; 
She perished gladly, folding close the secret 

Wherein is garnei-ed what it is to live. 





89 T 


Get up, get up ! for shame ! tlie blooming moni 
Upon her wings presents the god unsliom. 
See how Aurora tlirows her fair 
Frcsh-nuilteil colors through the air ; 
Get ui), sweet shigalieil, anil sec 
The (lew bespangling herb and tree. 
Eaeh llowf-r has wept, and bowed toward the east, 
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest, — 
Nay, not so mueli as out of l«;d, 
When all the birds have matins said. 
And sung their thankful hymns : 't is sin, 
Nay, profanation, to kee|i in, 
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day 
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 

Kise, anil put on your foliage, and be seen 
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and 
And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
For jewels for your gown or hair ; 
Fear not, the leaves will strew 
Gems in abundance upon you ; 
Besides, the childhood of the day has ke[it. 
Against you come, some Orient pearls unwept. 
Come, and receive them while the light 
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night ; 
And Titan on the eastern hill 
Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in 

j.raying ; 
Few beads arc best, when once we go a- Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come I and, coming, mark 
How each field turns a street, cacli street a park, 
Made green and trimmed with trees ; .see how 
Devotion gives each house a bough 
Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere this 
An ark, a tabernacle is, 
Maile up of white thoni neatly intenvove. 
As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
Can such delights be in the street 
And open fields, and wc not see 't ? 
Come, we '11 abroad, and let 's obey 
Tlie proclamation made for May, 
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ; 
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 

There 's not a budding boy or girl this day 

But is got up and gone to bring in May. 
A deal of youth, ere this, i-s come 
Back, and with white thorn laden, home ; 
Some have dispatched their cakes and cream 
Before that we have left to dream ; 

And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted 

And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth ; 

Many a green gown has Iwen given ; 

Many a kiss, Ixjth odd and even ; 

Many a glance, too, has V)een sent 

From out the eye, love's firmament ; 
Many a jest told of the keys' lietraying 
This night, and locks picked, yet we're not 

Come, let us go, while wc are in our prime. 
And take the hannlcss folly of the time. 

We shall glow olil ajiacc, and die. 

Before we know our liljerty. 

Our life is .short, and our days run 

As fast away as does the sun ; 
And a.s a vapor, or a drop of rain. 
Once lost, can ne'er Ije fouml again. 

So when or you or I are mailc 

A fable, song, or fleeting shaile, 

All love, allliking, all delight. 

Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying. 
Come, ruy Corinna, coine, let 's go a-Maying. 



If love were what the rose Ls, 
And 1 were like the haf. 

Our lives would grow together 

In sad or singing weather. 

Blown fields or flowerful closes, 
fjreen pleasure or gray grief ; 

If love were what the rose is. 
And 1 were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are, 

And love were like the tune. 
With douljle sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle, 
Witli kisses glad as birds are 

That get sweet rain at noon ; 
If I were what the words are. 
And love were like the tune. 

If you ware life, my d.arling. 

And I, your love, were death. 
We 'd shine and snow together 
Ere March made sweet the weather 
With daffodil and starling 

And hours of fruitful breath ; 
If you were life, rny darling, 
And I, your love, were death. 

If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy. 
We 'd jilay for livas and seasons. 
With loving looks and trcason.s. 






And tears of night and morrow, 
And laughs of maid and boy ; 

If yim wi'rc thrall to sorrow, 
Anil 1 were page to joy. 

If yon were April's lady. 

Ami I were lord in May, 
We \i tlirow with leaves for hours. 
And draw for days with flowers, 
Till day like night were shady, 

And night were Ijriglit like day ; 
If you were April's lady. 

And 1 were lord in May. 

If you were ciueen of pleasure, 

.\nd 1 were king of pain. 
We 'd hunt down love together, 
Plnek out his llying-feather, 
And teaeli his feet a measure, 

And find his mouth a rein ; 
If you were (jueeu of pleasure. 

And I were king of pain. 



1 1 lie lofty Ben Lomond, 
I.I |irosideo'er the scene. 


TllKsnnhnsgaui' ilnv 

.\nil li'ftthrrr.lil 
While lanely I stiay in tlir ralni snmmergloamin', 

To nmse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 

How sweet is the biier, wi' its saftfauldin' Wossom, 
An<l sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green ; 

Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this liosom. 
Is lovely young .lessie, the Flowero' Dumblane. 

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie, — 
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 

And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
Wha 'il lilight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' 

Sing on, thou sweet m.avi.s, thy hyum to the 
e'ening ! — 
Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen: 
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless .and winning, 
Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! 

The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ; 
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie 

Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' 

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur. 
Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain, 

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor. 
If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 



On Kichmond Hill there lives a lass 
More bright than May-day morn. 

Whose charms all other maids surjiass, — 
A rose without a thoin. 

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet. 
Has won my right good-will ; 

I 'd crowns resign to call her mine. 
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. 

Ye zephyrs gay that fan the air. 

And wanton through the grove, 

0, whisper to my charming fair, 
1 die for her 1 love. 

How happy will the shepherd be 
Who calls this nymph his own ! 

0, may her choice be fi.\ed on me ! 
Mine 's ti.xed on her alone. 

James Upton. 


Mary, at thy window be ! 

It is the wished, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Coulil I the rich reward .secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed through the lighted hn'. 

To thee my fancy took its wing, — 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 

Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sighecl, and said amang them a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thotight ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

Robert burns. 


— a 




0, LUVE will venture in where it daunia weel be 

0, luve will venture in where wisdom anee has been ! 
But I will down yon river rove amang the woods 

sae green : 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And 1 will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she 'a the pink o' womankind, and blooms 
without a peer : 
And a' to be a posie to my aiu dear May. 

I '11 pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 

in view, 
For it's like a balmy kiss o' her .sweet bonnie moii' ; 
The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi' its unchanging 

blue : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

Tlie lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
.\nd in her lovely bosom I '11 place the lily there ; 
Tlie daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear JIay. 

The hawthorn I will jiu', wi' its loekso siller gray. 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o'day; 
liut the songster's nest within the bush 1 winna 
take away : 
And a' to be a posie to my aiu dear May. 

The woodbine I will pn, when the e'ening star 

is near, 
And the diamonil draps o' dew shall be her een 

sae clear ; 
The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's to 

wear ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

1 '11 tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luvc. 
And I '11 place it in her breast, and I '11 swear by 

a' above 
That to my latest drauglit o' life the band shall 

ne'er remove : 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 


I HAVE traced the valleys fair 
In May morning's dewy air. 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear, 

Gathered all for thee ? 

They are not flowers of I'ride, 
For they graced the dingle-side ; 
Yet they grew in Heaven's smile. 

My gentle Maiy Lee ! 
Can they fear thy frowns the while 

Though oliered by me ? 

Here 's the lily of the vale. 
That perfumed the morning gale, 

My fairy Mary Lee ! 
All so spotless and so pale. 

Like thine own purity. 
And might 1 make it known, 
T is an emblem of my own 
h^ve, — if I dare so name 

My esteem for thee. 
Sursly (lowers can l>ear no blame, 

My bonny Mary Lee. 

Here 's the violet's modest blue. 

That 'ncath hawthorns hides fiom view, 

My gentle Mary Lee, 
V^ould show whose heart is true. 

While it thinks of thee. 
While they choose each lowly spot, 
The .sun disdains them not ; 
I 'm as lowly too, indeed. 

My charming Mary Lee ; 
So I 've brought the flowi-rs to plead, 

A*\d win a smile from thee. 

Here s a wild rose just in bud ; 
Si)ring's beauty in its hood, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
'T is the first in all the wood 

I couM find for thee. 
Though a blush is scarcely seen. 
Yet it hides its worth within. 
Like my Ime ; for 1 've no power, 

My angel Mary Lee, 
To speak unless the flower 

Can makf excuse for me. 

Though tliey deck no ])rlncely halls. 
In bou<|uets for glittering balls. 

My gentle Mary Lee, 
I'icher Imes than painted walls 

Will make them dear to thee ; 
For the blue and laughing sky 
Spreads a grander eaii^'jiy 
Than all wealth's golden skill. 

My <:harming Mary Lee ! 
Love would make them dearer r'ill. 

That offers- tliem to the«. 

My wreathed flowers are few, 
Yet no fairer drink the dew, 
My bonny Mary Ij<:e ! 






They may seem as trifles too, — 

Not, I hope, to tliee ; 
Some may boast a richer prize 
Under pride and wealth's disguise ; 
None a fonder offering bore 

Than this of mine to thee ; 
And can true love wish for more ? 

Surely not, Mary Lee ! 

JOHN Clare. 


I WANDERED by tho brookside, 

I wandered by the mill ; 

I could not hear the brook flow, — 

The noisy wheel was still ; 

There was no burr of grasshopper. 

No chirp of any bird. 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 

I watched the long, long shade. 

And, as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 

For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word, — 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not, — no, he came not, — 
The night came on alone, — 
The little stars sat one by one, 
Each on his golden tlirone ; 
The evening wind passed by my cheek. 
The leaves above were stirre<l, — 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast silent tears were flowing, 
When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder, — 
I knew its touch was kind : 
It drew me nearer, — nearer, — 
We did not speak one word. 
For the beating of our own hearts 
Was all the sound we heard. 

How sweet the answer Echo makes 

To Music at night 
Wlien, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, 
And far away o'er lawns and lakes 

Goes answering light ! 

Yet Love hath echoes truer far 

And far more sweet 
Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star. 
Of horn or lute or soft guitar 

The songs repeat. 

'T is when the sigh — in youth sincere 

And only then. 
The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear - 
Is by that one, that only Dear 

Breathed back again. 

Thomas Moorh 



My dear and only love, I pray. 

That little world, — of thee, — 
Be governed by no other sway 

Than purest Monarchic. 
For if confusion have a part. 

Which virtuous souls abhore. 
And have a Synod in thine heart, 

I '11 never love thee more. 

As Alexander I will reign. 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts shall evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne ; 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small 
That puts it not unto the touch. 

To will or lose it all. 

But I will reign, and govern still, 

And always give the law. 
And have each subject, at my will. 

And all to stand in awe ; 
But 'gainst my batteries if I find 

Thou kick or vex me sore, 
As that thou set me up a blind, 

I '11 never love thee more. 

And in the Empire of thine heart. 

Where 1 should solely be, 
If others do pretend a part, 

Or dare to vie with me, 
Or if Committees thou erect. 

And go on such a score, 
I '11 laugh and sing at thy neglect, 

And never love thee more. 

But if thou wilt prove faithful then. 
And constant of thy word, 

I '11 make thee glorious by my pen 
And famous by my sword ; 




I '11 serve thee in such noble ways 

Was never heard before, 
1 11 crown and deck thee all with bays, 

And love thee more and more. 


My dear and only love, take heed 

How thou thyself dispose ; 
Let not all longing lovers feed 

Ujjon such looks as those ; 
1 11 marble wall thee round about. 

Myself shall be the door, 
And if thy heart chance to slide out, 

I 'U never love thee more. 

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot, 

Make any breach at all. 
Nor smoothness of their language plot 

Which way to scale the wall ; 
Nor balls of wildfire love consume 

The shrine which I adore. 
For if such smoke about thee fume, 

1 '11 never love thee more. 

I know thy virtues be too strong 

To suffer by surprise ; 
If that thou slight their love too long. 

Their siege at last will rise, 
And leave thee conqueror, in that health 

And state thou wast before ; 
But if thou turn a Commonwealth, 

1 '11 never love thee more. 

And if by fraud, or by consent, 

Thy heart to ruin come, 
I '11 sound no trumpet as I wont. 

Nor march by tuck of drum. 
But hold my arms, like Achaiis, up, 

Thy falsehood to deplore. 
And bitterly will sigh and weep, 

And never love thee more. 

I '11 do with thee as Nero did 

When he set Rome on fire; 
Not only all relief forbid, 

But to a hill retire. 
And scorn to shed a tear to save 

Thy spirit grown so poor, 
But laugh and smile thee to thy grave, 

And never love thee more. 

Then shall thy heart be set by mine, 

But in far different case, 
For mine was true ; so was not thine. 

But looked like Janus' face ; 

For as the waves with every wind, 

So sails thou every shore 
And leaves my constant heart behind, — 

How can I love thee more ? 

My heart shall with the sun be fi.x'd, 

For constancy most strange ; 
And there shall with the moon be mi.v'd. 

Delighting aye in change ; 
Tliy beauty shiued at first so bright ! 

And woe is me therefore, 
That ever 1 found thy love so light 

That I could love no more. 

Yet foi- the love 1 bare thee once. 

Lest that thy name should die, 
A monument of marble stone 

The truth shall testify ; 
That every pilgrim passing by. 

May pity and deplore, 
And, sighing, read the reason why 

1 cannot love thee more. 

The golden laws of love shall be 

Upon these pillars hung ; 
A single heart ; a simple eye ; 

A true and constant tongue ; 
Let no man for more love pretend 

Than he has hearts in store ; 
True love begun will never end ; 

Love one and love no more. 

And when all gallants ride about 

These monuments to view, 
Whereon is written, in and out, 

Thou traitorous and untrue ; 
Then, in a passion, they shall pause, 

And thus say, sighing sore, 
Alas ! he had too just a cause 

Never to love thee more. 

And when that tracing goddess Fame 

From east to west shall flee. 
She shall recoid it to thy .shame 

JIo-w thou hast lovfcd me ; 
And how in odds our love was such 

As few have been before ; 
Thou lovedst too many, and 1 too much ; 

So I can love no more. 

The misty mount, the smoking lake. 

The rock's resounding echo. 
The whistling winds, the woods that shake. 

Shall all, with me, sing hey ho 1 
The tossing seas, the tumbling boats, 

Tears dropping from each oar, 
Shall tuiie with me their tiirlle notes, — 

I '11 never love thee more. 






As (li>lli llic luvlli'. rliiiNt,. iiml Inio. 

lloi IVIlow s (U-lltll ivgivt. 
Ami (liiily mminis lV>i' lii>i' mlii'il, 

Ami m''i'r iviiowm 1>oi' mute i 
t^o, lluv\ij{h m_Y I'uilli wiix oviM' liisl, 

W'liioli jsi'iovi'N mo womliwis soiv. 
Y('( 1 sliiill livo ill K>vo »o oliiisto 

Tlml 1 »liii>l love no moiv. 

lAMiiv »;k,miam. MARVl'IS v>l' Mv>NrK»Sll. 


LiKK l»> the olwu' ill higluKst splloiv, 
WlnMV 111) imiH'rittl j(l»i'V !<liiii(<s, 
01' s>-lfsiitm> I'olor is lnM' liiiii'. 
WliciluM- imlViUlwl. or in twiiios ; 

lli-i}{li-lio, I'liii' Kiwiilino ! 
lloi' oyos tuH- siH>i>l\iiV!ii set in snow, 
Kiwmliliiijj luMVon l>y ovtvv wink ; 
'I'lio jjvhIs do losir wln>n«8 llu\v glow. 
Ami I >U> uvmblo wlu'ii I think 

lloi^li-lio, wouM slio wviv uiiiio I 

lliM- >'lnH'ks i»v like tlip Uusliiiig olovui 
'rii»( iHHivUilii's Auivra's rai-e, 
ih liki> llio silvoi I'limsou slii\mil 
'I'liivl riio'lms' smiliiijj looks violli graoo ; 

lloijjiihis I'iiiv UiK-ialim' I 
lloi' U|v< iuv liko two bmUlwl iwsos 
Whom nuiks of liliiw m-igUlMi' iiigU, 
WiUiiti wluv-h K>umls slio hilm cm'losos 
Ai>t to oinioo ;> (loity ; 

IU'igli-lu>. woviKl sUi> wviv iuiiu< ! 

llv'V mvk is liko a stiito^v towiiv 
WliiMV Low liinisclf imjiiisonwl U(>!>, 
To wiitoU lof gliinoos ouny liour 
Fi><ii\ lu'i- tUviiio ami saoiwl p\-v« ; 

lU'igU-lio. fair KvissvUuo ! 
Ilor ivi^s aiv iviitivs of >lolij;)»t, 
Hor iiR-asIs aiv orK< of luviwiily lHim>. 
Wlu'iv Natniv monUls tin- vlow of light 
'l\< flHHl IHM'fvVtioll «ith tlio s;mu' : 

lloijfhho, wouUl slio woiv mino ! 

With orioiil |w>rl. with rviby uhI, 
With marMo whito, with sannUviv Wuo, 
Hor Knly ovory way is IVhI, 
Yot svft in tonoh anil swwt in viow : 

lloijthliv*, fair l!vv<;>liuo I 
Xatiuv hoivolf hor shajH' ailuiirx's ; 
TUo j5\hIs aiv wmuiuUhI in hor sight : 
Aii.l I ow foiNiikos his hiNiwuly liros 
Aiul at hor oy\>s his l>r:»ml >loth light : 

lloigh-Uo, «\niUl sho wviv niino ! 

Siuoo for a fair tlioiv '» faiivr iiono, 
Nor for hor virtuos so ilivino , 

lloigh-ho, ftiir Hosaliiio ' 
lloighho, my hoart I wonM lloil lli:il 
mino ! 



Awvur '. (ho slany midnight lionr 

Hangs I'hiiinioil, ami imnsoth in its lliglil : 
In its own swoolnos,s sU'oivi iho llowor. 
Ami tlio ilovos lio liushoil in (loop ilolight, 
Awako I awako ! 
liook lorlh, n>j- lovo, for l.ovo's swoot sako! 

Awako ! soft dows will soon arlso 

I'' linn daisy moad and thorny Iniiko ; 
'rhoii. swoot, niu'loud thoM' oastorn oyos. 
Ami liko iho tomlor morning luvak 1 
Awaki' ! awako ' 
l>awn lortli. my lovo. for Kovo's swoot sjiko! 

Awako ! — within tho imisk-rvvso bowor 
I watoh, \v>lo llowor of lovo, for Ihoo. 
Ah, oomo ' and show tln> starry hour 

What w<\dth of lovo tlion hid'st fivm mo! 
Awako ! awiko ! 
Show all thy low, for l.ovo's swoot sako 1 

.Vwako ! - - no'or howl thoitgh listoning night 

Stoal innsio t\vm thy sil\or voioo ; 
fmloiivl thy Ivauty, riiii' and hright. 
Ami l>id tlio world and mo i^joiw ! 
.\wako I awsiko ! - 
Sho oiMUOs at last, for Low's swwt sako. 



Two j>ilgriiHS fivlu tho distant (daiii 
I'omo >(niokly o'or tho mossy gixmiid, 

t">no is a K>y, w ith loi-ks of gvdvl 

Thiok ourling i\<nnd lli^ faoo so fair ; 

TUo othor pilgrim, storii and old, 
lias jmowy In-aui and silvov hair, 

Tho wuth with many a worry triok 

t>vH<s singing on his oandoss way ; 
Uis old wnnwniou wsdks sis .(uiok, 

PmU siwiks no woi\l hy night or day. 
Whow'or tho old man tmuls, tho grass 

Kast ladoth with a i-ortain doom : 
l»»t whoiv tho IvautorHis N>y doth jviss 

t'nmimlviwl Uowvtv ar* s>vn to hUnitn. 

Thon niwsv> tiot, Xynij^lts, though X bo«\vv>n 
TUo .■>l>sot»i\> of fi»«r Uosaliup, 


Aitd thus KvtVir*? tUo sag«>, tlio K>y 
Tril>s lightly o'or tlio blooming huul 





And jiroiiilly Imiirn » \mMy Uiy, — 
A r.ryMJti |{lu»)) witli (liniiioii'i <iaiii)H, 

A ijiiiil'! '/or iuiy I'/nw wkiiIiI ixwft 
'I'll »<■« liiid (r'/lic ill tliir sun, 

'!'(; «(;<: liiiii stidkc till! cryfstal «Iiwb, 
Ami iiink". tlic wiTido niwi! '(iiirkly run. 

Aiiil (iiiw tli«y kiifi tli« »lr<«i(ii)irt. <ti:r, 

A silver tlir<;(«l wi wlill* fiml llii»i, 
Ami ii'/w Ui«y r<Mu;li Hi<! ojnii ilnor, 

Aii'l ii'/w'^y lij?liHy 'iiil'^i' ill ; 
"Owl «iv« nil liB(<!," - Uial kiml wi»li llino 

mill xvtmUiT fr'rtii lii« li|« w swwit ; 
"(»(;() siivii ymi kiii'lly," Nornli i.rh'M, 

" Hit, i|/rt*(i, (fiy (diilil, iiii'l rest, (iii'l •■.ai," 

"TlittiikK, j<««t,l« Niifftli, I'nir iiiiil (/'>'<il, 

W<! 'II rial iiwliilo our wi;(iry t<>-X ; 
Dill, l.lioiinli tliiii ol'l mini (i<."«l«lli fwxl, 

'\'\\ifi:'fi (i'/l,liifi« li'ini tlittt Ik! i:(tii «at, 
lli^ t„i*f<: is nirniiv.'', '"' '«'♦" "Ioiks, 

liiiiwdli tvniii; riiiiiwl cli/ixUtr"* <!«(>«, 
0/ '<i( fKHfie Uri,U;rilin tiirri,-!'* ttUilin, 

Wliilo I can i>nly llvi; on l('>)X! 1 

" A v/iwk n((o, »;rn yon vtimt vmi, ■■- 

It was lli« V'iry nif<lil, l«l'(/r(!, — 
l/|ioi( wi KKtny swM;(,» I fi'A 

Wliili! (xKsiiin l<y y/iir iiKillipr's iIwjt, — 
It, V/IU-: that, il«ir, 'li^lii'iuiis (I'mr 

Wlii:ii Owi:ii lii:rii till! wiff.y.iiy l/r«ii(<lit, 
Ami fiiiinil yon in t,li« wi»/ill/ini; \iiivikt, — 

Hini« llK-fi, indwal, I 'v; im-AiA UMiiCm,," 

A IjIiisJi «t<!«Ii« '/vcr SurMa (iu:i;, 

A »n(il« <-/)ines avKr Owi.ii'n Uniw, 
A trfinijiiil ,j'/y illnnii!'! t,ti<: |>l.-i/'<^ 

A« if tliB nim/n w':r>! sliininj^ wiw ; 
Til*: tx>y twIi'/Md tlic iilwwinx liiiii, 

Till; dWf!<!t, '^rtifiwlmi 111! liiiA iIkiib, 
A nil sliakftst the crystal glaiw anftiii, 

And ni«ke« tli<! windft rni/re (jnickly run, 

" l)i'ar N'i;r»ti, we, an; i>ilffrirn», Ixrtind 

l,'(>(>n an (rTii|l<rs« (latli silbli/ni! ; 
W« (Xi/w ttiR !/,ri;<m i!art,li ronnil and riffltid, 

And uiortii)!! call ii« (/>VK and TfMK ; 
n<; fs<:«k» tli'i many, I tli« ffw ; 

I dwell witli fx»i.<!ant,«, lie, with kinifft. 
Wk swddirtn tni!<rt, ; tint wtiBH Wf do, 

I tJtkc h'm j<la<i«, and li« rny win({«, 

" And til lis t/)};<rth<fr on wc j(o, 

Wlicrccr I clianwi or wisdi V) I'swl ; 

And Time, wlio«: lonely HUffa are slow, 
Now swwrjw alon(( with )it/)itmtiH »^aA. 

}iitvt im our bri;;ht jirwlestinwl way 
We, rniigt t'< '/tlier Ti:fr)iiiin jiasn ; 

Ktit tekfi tills Kitl, and nl^lit and day 
l/>ok well ii|i«/n lis Irnlliriil uliisn, 

" JIow ijiiiik or slow tlie IniKtil sands' fall 

Is liid fioiii loveis' eyes alone; 
If yon can aixi llieiii move at all, 

lU- sine your lieart Inw i/ildei ;/M;Wn, 
'T is I'oldness makes tlie kImss j/row dry, 

Tlie ley liand, tlie tfu/.iiin lifow ; 
I'.iit wiiiiii till: liearl, and hreatlie tlie sijiili, 

And Hien llicy 'II jiass, yon know n/rf, li//w." 

Hlin took tlie ((lass wli<;re Ixive's warm lianda 

A l/ri((lil lm|X!rvioii3 vufKir east ; 
Hlio I'Kiks, l/iit eannot. B(;e tlie sands, 

Altlioi(p;li slie feels lliey re fallinj; fast, 
lint i^dd lioiiis ejinie, and tlien, ala.4 ! 

Hlie saw tlieni fallin({ fiowm tlifo)ii(li. 
Till l<«ve's warm liiflit siiirii«;d tlie ({laso. 

And liid tlie loos';ninK samls from view I 



WoMA'i is etowiied, lint niaii in triitli is king, 
I am a ijiieeii, liiit when my vassals hrinj^ 
Krnit l/i my lijis it is m/t fruit t// me. 
While hitt^^r hrea/l would I* a feast with thee, 
And each hrealti tremhle into e/;stasy j 
Hilt Kat»; forhids the dear delight Ui l«, 
I am a i\\tivM, l/ilt (x»ve of '(mens is li/rd ; 
I am a i)iie,<-ii, l/iil firtterwl dy a eord 
Tlgiit as the silk the t^iiiriils ((resse/l around 
The l<«ir, ilestroyiiii/ A'loii with a wound, 
Koiiiid Knil'y 'ly 'In- l-oves, (iiid slain whin found ; 
''oiiilemned liy Venus to a death r'li'/wne'l, 
I am a qiieeri ; Ix; men iful t^< me, 
,My sulijeet, Lamelot, Tine alone I s^-e ; 
All el.s<- is tuWfiu, (iinii xny swiniminx eyes. 
That whi/di in ine was '(ue,«;fi is dead or dies, 
lint v/hat was woman livi« the more, and sighs 
Like weary 1/alx- athirst at niidnij^ht cries. 
A i|iieeri e//Himands n</t. heart, litit li(. and knee, 
I'oor little ifiieen, why must thou rovfl If ' 
Knight of the smile and voic« so l.linding swe,et,. 
Is ii'rt. rank iee, and jiasslon melting heat ' 
Wi|X! off the (lakes that f<f,ain thy whiter feel, 
IJjxm my crown, I/rr/wn it, ye smrws and sh;^ I 

KLV TO rilK IjtrjiKtCe, frhV WITH MK. 

Ttl, IIP W'/I/HMAMAI. 1» "(Ml! I.KiHf '* IMR HAKSM. 

"Vl,v t/> the des/rrt, (ly with ni«. 

Our Ara>« f/^nts are nnle for thee ; 

I'ut oh ! the choii^j what heart ivin dotiW 

f>f t«»it» with I</Ve >it thrf/Ti«9 withoot 

' ^ 






" Our rocks are rough, but smiling there 
Tir ucucia waves her yellow hair, 
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
For llowering iu a wilderness. 

" Our sands are bare, but down their slope 

The silvery-footed antelope 

As gracefully and gayly sjirings 

As o'er the marble courts ui' kings, 

"Then come, — thy Arab maid will be 
The loved and lone aea('ia-tre(!. 
The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
With their light sound thy loneliness. 

"0, there are looks and tones tnat dart 
An instant sunshine through the heart. 
As if the soul that minute lauglit 
Some treasure it through life had sought ; 

" As if the very lips and eyes 
Predestined to have all our sighs. 
And never be forgot again. 
Sparkled and spoke before as then ! 

"So came thy every glance and tone, 
When lirst on me they breathed and shone ; 
New, as if brought from other spheres, 
Yet welcome as if loved for years ! 

"Then lly with me, if thou hast known 
No other Hame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away, that thou hadst swoni 
Should ever in tliy heart be worn. 

' ' Come, if the love thou hast for me 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, — 
Fresh as the fountain underground. 
When first 't is by the lapwing found. 

" But if for me thou dost forsake 
Some other maid, and I'udcly break 
Her worshiped image from its base, 
To give to me the ruined place, 

" Then, fare thee well ! — I M rather make 
My bower upon some icy lake 
When thawing suns begin to shine 
Than trust to love so false as thine ! " 

There was a pathos in this lay. 

That even without enchantment's art 
Would instantly luivo found its way 
Deep into Selim's burning heait ; 
But breathing, as it did, a tone 
To earthly lutes and li]>s unknown ; 
With eveiy chord fresh from the touch 
Of music's spirit, 't was too much ! 

Starting, he dashed away the cup, — 

Which, all the time of this sweet air, 
His hand had held, untasted, up, 

As if 't were fi-Kcd by magic there, — 
And naming her, so long unnamed. 
So long unseen, wildly exclaimed, 
" Nourmahal ! Nourmalial ! 

Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, 
I could forget — forgive thee all. 

And never leave those eyes again." 

The mask is off, — the charm is wrought, — 
And Selim to his heart has caught, 
In blushes more than ever bright, 
His Nounnahal, his Harem's Light ! 
And well do vanished frowns enhance 
The charm of every briglitened glance ; 
And dearer seems each dawning smile 
For having lost its light awhile ; 
And, happier now for all her sighs, 

As on his arm her head reposes, 
She whispers him, with laughing eyes, 

" Remember, love, the Feast of Koses ! " 
Thomas Moore. 


Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown ! 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine .spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of Love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves. 
On a bed of daffodil sky, — 

To faint in the light of the sun that she loves. 
To faint in its light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune, — 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
■WHien will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 





I said to the rose, "The briel' night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
young loril-lover, what sighs are those 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, Imt mine," so I sware to the rose, 

" For ever and ever mine ! " 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 

As tlie music clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake 1 stood. 

For I heard your rivulet tall 
From the lake to the meadow ami on to tlie wood. 

Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That, whenever a March-wind sighs. 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes. 

To the woody hollows in which we meet, 
Ami the valleys of Para.lise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long railk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

(}uccn rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
I nnio hither ! the dances are done ; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of ]iear]s, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. 
To the llowers, and Iw tliiir sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
Slie is rnniing, my dove, my dear ; 

Sill' is I'oiiiing, my life, my fate ! 
The nil cries, "She is near, she is near" ; 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late " ; 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear" ; 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ! 

Were it ever so aiiy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tiemble under her feet. 

Ami blossom in purple and red. 

Alfred TENt^'SON. 

It may be through some foreign grace. 

And unfamiliar charm of face ; 

It may be that across the foam 

Which bore her from her childhood's home, 

By some strange spell, my Katie brought, 

Along with English creeds and thought, — 

Entangled in her golden hair, — 

Some EnglLsh sunshine, warmth, and air ! 

I i^annot tell — but here to-day, 

A thousand billowy leagues away 

From that gi-een isle whose twilight skies 

No darker an^ than Katie's eyes. 

She seems to me, go whei'e .she will. 

An English girl in England still. 

I meet her on the dusty street. 

And daisies spring about her feet ; 

Or, touched to life beneath her tread. 

An English cowslip lifts its head ; 

Anil, iLs to do her grace, rise up 

The primrose and the buttercup. 

1 roam with her through fields of cane, 

And seem to stroll an Knglish lane. 

Which, white with blossoms of the May, 

Spieads its green carpet in her way. 

As fancy wills, the patli beneutli 

Is golden gorse, or purple heath ; 

And now we hear in woodlands ilim 

Their unarticulated hymn, 

Now walk through rippling waves of wheat 

Now sink in mats of clover sweet. 

Or see before us from the lawn 

The lark go up to giec-t the dawn. 

All liirds that love the English sky 

Throng round my path when she is by ; 

The lilackhird from a neighboring thorn 

With music brims the cup of morn. 

And in a thick, melodious rain 

Th<! mavis pours her mellow strain. 

I>nt only when my Katie's voice 

Makes all the listening woods rejoice 

I hear — with cheeks that Hush and pale - 

The passion of the nightingale. 

Anon the pictures round her change. 

And through an ancient town we range 

Whereto the shadowy memory clings 

Of one of England's Saxon kings, 

And which, to .shrine his fading fame. 

Still keeps Ids ashes and his name. 

Quaint houses rise on either hand ; 

But still the airs are fresh and bland. 

As if their gentle wings caressed 

Somi' new-born village of the West. 

A moment by the Nonnan tower 

We pause ; it is the Sabbath hour ! 

And o'er the city sinks and swells 



1 "JS 




The chime of old St. Mary's bells, 

Wliieh still resouml in Katie's eare 

As sweet as when in ilistuiit ycai-s 

She heard them (leal wiili jinuiul din 

A merry linglisli Christmas in. 

We pass the Abbey's ruined arch, 

.\nd statelier grows my Katie's march, 

As round her, wearied with the taint 

OrTninsatlantic pine and paint. 

She sees a thousand tokens east 

Of Englanil's venemble jMst. 

Our i-everent footstejvs lastly claims 

The younger chapel of St. James, 

Which, though, as Knglish records run, 

Not old, had seen full many a sun, 

Kre to the cold Uecember g.\le 

The thoughtful I'ilgrini spivad his S!>il. 

There Katie in her childish days 

SiH'lt out her pniyei-s and lis|wd her praise, 

And doubtless, as her beauty grew. 

Did much as other maidens do, — 

Across the pews and down the aisle 

Sent many a beau-bowildering smile, 

.■\nd to subserve her spirit's need 

Learned other things beside the ei-eed. 

The;v, too, to-day her knee she bows. 

And by her one w hose darker brows 

Betray the Southern heart that burns 

lieside her, and which only turns 

Its thoughts to Heaven iu one request. 

Not all unworthy to be blest. 

But rising from an eartldier juiiu 

Thau might lieseem a I'hristiau fane. 

Ah ! can the guileless maiden share 

The wish that lifts that i«issionate prayer ? 

Is all at peace that bit-ast within ? 

Good angels ! wsirn her of the sin ! 

Alas ! what boots it ■ who can sjive 

A w illing victim of the wave .' 

W ho cleanse a soul that loves its guilt ? 

Or givther wine when wine is spilt ? 

Wo quit the holy house ami giun 
The open air ; then, happy twain, 
.\down familiar streets we go, 
And now and then she turns to show, 
With feai-s that all is changing fast. 
Some spot that 's sjiered to her past. 
Here, by this way, through shadows cool, 
A little maid, she tripi>ed to school ; 
.■\nd there, each morning used to stop 
Before a wonder of a shop 
Where, built of apjilesand of i>eai's. 
Hose pyramids of golden spheivs ; 
While dangling in her dazzled sight, 
Hipe cherries cast a crimson light 
.■\iid made her think of elfin lamps. 
And least and sport in fairy camps. 

Whereat upon her royal throne 
(Most richly carved in cherry-stone) 
Titauia ruled, in iiueeuly state. 
The boisterous revels of the fete ! 
'Twas yonder, with their "horrid" noise, 
Dismissed from books, she met the boys. 
Who, with a barbarous scorn of girls. 
Glanced lightly at her sunny curls, 
And laughed and leaped as reckless by 
As though no pretty face were nigh. 
But here the maiden grows demuiv, — 
Indeed, she 's not so very sure 
That in a year, or haply twain. 
Who looked e'er failed to look again ; 
And, sooth to say, 1 little dottbt 
(Some !\zure day the truth will out '.) 
That certain baits in certain eyes 
Caught many an unsuspecting prize ; 
And somewhere underneath eaves 
A budding flirt put forth its leaves ! 

Has not the sky a deeper bine. 
Have not the trees a greener hue, 
And bend they not with louUier grace 
And noble shapes above the place 
Wheivon, one cloudless winter morn. 
My Katie to this life was born ' 
Ah, folly ! long hath tied the lioin- 
When love to sight gave keener power. 
And lovers looked for special boons 
In brighter flowers and larger moons. 
But wave the foliage as it may. 
And let the sky be ashen gray. 
Thus much at least a manly youth 
May hold — and yet not blush — as truth : 
If near that blessed spot of earth 
Which saw the cherished maiden's birth 
No softer dews than usual rise. 
And life there keeps its wonted guise. 
Yet not the less that spot may seem 
As lovely as a poet's dream ; 
And should a fervid faith incline 
To make thereof a sainted shrine. 
Who may deny that roumi us throng 
A hundred earthly creeds as wrong. 
But meaner far, which yet unblamed 
Stalk by us and are not ashamed > 
So, therefore, Katie, as our stroll 
Ends at this portal, while you roll 
Those lustrous eyes to catch each ray 
That may recall some vanished day, 
I — let them jeer and laugh w ho will — 
Stoop down and kiss the sacred sill ! 
So strongly sometimes on the sense 
These fancies hold their iiUluence, 
That iu long well-known streets I stray 
Like one who fears to lose his way. 
The stranger I, the native slie. 





Myself, not Kate, had crossed tlie sea ; 

And changing place, and mixing times, 

I walk in unfamiliar climes. 

'I'tjesc houses, free to every breeze 

That lilows from warm Flondian seas. 

Assume a massive English air. 

And close around an English square ; 

While, if I issue from the town, 

An English hill looks greenly down. 

Or lound me rolls an English park. 

And in the Broad 1 liear the lark. 

Thus when, where woodland violets hide, 

I rove with Katie at my side. 

It .scarce would seem to say ; 

" Katie ! my home lies far away. 

Beyond the jiathless waste of brine, 

In a young land of pahn and pine. 

There by the tropic heats the soul 

Is touched as if with living coal. 

And glows with such a fire as none 

Can feel beneath a Northern sun, 

Unless — my Katie's heart attest ! — 

'T Ls kindled in an English breast. 

Such is the land in which I live. 

And, Katie ! such the soul I give. 

Come, ere another morning beam. 

We '11 cleave the sea with wings of steam ; 

And soon, despite of storm or calm. 

Beneath my native groves of palm. 

Kind friends shall greet, with joy and pride, 

The Southron and his English bride I 



Two brown heads with tossing curls, 
Red lips shutting over pearls. 
Bare feet, white and wet with dew, 
Two eyes black, and two eyes blue ; 
Little girl and boy were they, 
Katie Lee and Willie Grey. 

They were standing where a brook. 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks 
Of willow fringed its mossy banks ; 
Half in thought, and half in play, 
Katie Lee and Willie Orey. 

They had cheeks like cherries red ; 
He was taller, — near a head ; 
She, with arms like wreaths of snow, 
Swung a basket to and fro 
As she loitered, half in play, 
Chattering to Willie Grey. 

" Pretty Katie," Willie said, — 
And there came a of red 

Through the brownness of his cheek, 
" Boys are strong and girbj are weak. 
And 1 '11 carry, so 1 will, 
Katie's basket up the hill." 

Katie answered with a laugh, 
" You shall carry only half" ; 
And then, tossing back her curls, 
" Boys are weak as well as girls." 
Do you think that Katie guesscl 
Half the wisdom she expressed ? 

Men are only hoys grown tall ; 
Hearts don't change much, after all ; 
And when, long years from that day, 
Katie Lee and Willie Grey 
Stood iigain beside the brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, — 

Is it strange that Willie said. 

While again a dash of re<l 

Crossed the brownness of his cheek, 

" I am strong and you are weak ; 

Life is but a slipf)ery steej). 

Hung with shadows cold and deep : 

" Will you trust me, Katie dear, — 
Walk beside me without fear ? 
May I carry, if ! will. 
All your burdens up the hill ? " 
And she answered, with a laugh, 
"No, but you may carry half." 

Close beside the little brook. 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
Wtishing with its silver hands 
Late and early at the sands. 
Is a cottage, where to-day 
Katie lives with Willie Grey. 

In a porch she sits, and lo ! 
Swings a l>asket to and fro — 
Vastly different from the one 
That she swnng in years agone : 
This is long and deep and wide, 
And has — rocirrs nt Oir side. 


A LI. in the May-time's merriest weather 

Rode two travelers, bride and groom ; 
Breast and breast went their mules together. 

Fetlock deep through the daisy bloom. 
Roses peeped at them out of the hedges. 

White flowers leaned to them down from the I 
And up from the furrows with sunlit edges ' 

Crowded with children that sowed in the corn, T 


Cheek o'er cheek, ami with red so tender 

Rippiing briglit tlirougli the gypsy brown, 
Just to see how a lady's sjilendor 

Shone tlie heads of the daffodils down. 
Ah, but the wonder grows and lingers. 

All, but their fields look low and lorn, 
Just to think how her jeweled fingers 

Shamed the seeds of their yellow corn ! 

0, it was sweet, so sweet to be idle ! 

Each little sower with fate fell wroth ; 
0, but to ride with a sjiangled bridle ! 

for a saddle with scarlet cloth ! 
Waving corn — each stalk in tassel ; 

Home, with its thatch and its turf-lit room — 
What was this by the side of a castle ? 

Wliat was that to a tossing plume ? 

Winds through the violets' misty covering 

Now kissed the white ones and now the blue, 
Sang the redbreast over them hovering 

All as the world were but just made new. 
And on and on through the golden weather, 

Fear at the faintest and hope at the best. 
Went the tine lovers riding together. 

Out of the East-land and into the West. 

Father and mother in tears abiding, 

Bridemaids all with their favors dressed. 
Back and backward the daisies sliding, 

Dove-throat, Black-foot, breast and breast. 
Yet hath the bridemaid joy of licr pining, 

And grief sits light on the mother's brow ; 
Under her cloud is a silver lining, — 

The lowly child is a lady now. 

But for the sowers, the eyes held shady 

Either till' sun-brown arm or hand ; 
Darkly tiny tullow the lord and lady 

AVitli jcnlous hatred of house .and land. 
Fine — it was all so fine to be idle ; 

Dull and weary the work-day doom ; 
0, Imt to ride with a spangled bridle ! 

foi' a cap with a tossing plume ! 

Nearer the castle, the bells fell ringing, 

And strong men and maidens to work and wait. 
Cried, "God'sgraceonthebride'shome-bringing," 

And master, mistress, rode through the gate. 
Five select ladies — maids of the chamber — 

One sewed her silken seams, one kept herrings. 
One for the pearl combs, one for the amber. 

And one for her green fan of peacock wings. 

And sweetly and long they abode in their castle. 
And daughters and sons to their love were born ; 

But doves at the dew-fall homeward nestle. 
To lodge in the rafters they left at morn ; 

And memory, holding true and tender, 
As pleasures faded and years increased. 

Oft bore the lady from all her splendor 
Out of the West-land into the East ; 

And far from the couch where sleep so slowly 

Came to her eyes through the purples grand. 
Left her to lodge in the bed so lowly. 

Smoothed by the mother's dear, dear hand. 
But after all the ado to assemble 

The sunrise pictures to brighten the set. 
One there was thrilled her heart to a tremble. 

Half made of envy and half of regret. 

Ah, was it this that in playful sporting, 

And not as lamenting her maiden years. 
Often she brought from the time of the courting. 

When hopes are the sweeter for little fears. 
That one day of the days so pleasant. 

When, while she mused of her lord, as it fell. 
Rode from the castle the groom with his jiresent. 

Dear little Dove-throat, beloved so well ? 

Or altar, in splendor of lilies and laces. 

Long-tressed bridemaids, or jjriest close shorn? 
Or ride through the daisies, or green field spaces. 

Gay with children that sowed in the corn ? 
Ye who have left the noontide behind you, 

And whom dull shadows begin to ojipress, 
Say, ere the night-time falleth to blind you, 

Which was the picture — pray, do you guess ? 

All in the castle was sweet with contentment, 

For Fortune, in granting all favors but one, 
Threw over the distance a cruel enchantment 

That darkened the love-light and darkened the 
Of alms and of pleasures the life-long bestowers. 

The lord and the lady had just one lament : 
for the lives of the brown little sowers ! 

And for their artless and homely content ! 



Come in the evening, or come in the morning ; 
Come when you 're looked for, or come without 

warning ; 

Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before you, 

And the oftener you come here the more I '11 adore 

you ! 

Light is myheart since the day we were plighted; 

Red is mycheek that they told me was blighted ; 

The gi-een of the trees looks far greener than 

And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't 





I '11 pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 

Or, after you 've kissed them, they '11 lie on my 

bosom ; 
1 '11 fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire 

I '11 fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire 
Oh ! your step 's like the rain to the summer- 
vexed farmer. 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; 
I '11 sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above 

Then, wandering, 1 '11 wish you in silence to 
love me. 

We '11 look through the trees at the cliff and the 

eyrie ; 
We '11 tread round tlic rath on the track of the 

fairy ; 
We '11 look on the stars, and we '11 list to the 

Till you ask of your darling what gift you can 
give her. 
Oh! she'll whisper you, — "Love, as un- 
changeably beaming. 
And trust, when in sei^ret, most tunefully 

streaming ; 
Till the starl ight of heaven above us .shall quiver, 
As our souls How in one down eternity's river." 

So come in the evening, or come in the morning; 
Come when you 're looked for, or come without 

warning ; 
Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before you, 
And the oftener you come here the more I '11 adore 
you ! 
Liglit is my heart since thedaywewereplighted; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; 
The green of thetreeslooks fargreenerthan ever, 
And tlie linnets aresinging, "True lovers don't 
sever ! " 

TnoM.\s Davis. 



Oa' the yowes to the Icnovjes, 
Ca' tliem where tite heatlt^r grows, 
Ca' tliem where the burnie roiaes, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Cluden's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Cn the, etc. 

We '11 gae down by Cluden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' live, etc. 

Yonder Cluden's silent towers. 
Where at moonshine midnight liours, 
O'er the lU'wy bending llowors, 
Kairies diiiice sac chccrie. 
Cit' the, etc. 

Chaist nor bogle shalt thou fi'ar : 
Thou 'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, 
Kocht of ill may come thee near. 
My bonnie dearie. 
Oa the, etc. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' tlie, etc. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
Till clay-canld death shall blin' my e'e, 
Ye shall be my dearie. 
Ca' tlw, etc. 




Come over, come over 
The river to me, 
If ye are my laddie, 
Kold Charlie machree. 

Here 's Mary McPherson 
And Susy O'Linn, 
Wlio say ye 're faint-hearted. 
And darena plunge in. 

But the dark rolling water, 
Tlioiigh deep as the sea, 
I know willna scare ye. 
Nor keep ye frae me ; 

For stout is yer back. 
And strong is yer arm. 
And the heart in yer bosom 
Is faithful and warm. 

Come over, come over 
The liver to me, 
If ye are my laddie, 
Rold Charlie machree ! 






I see liii.i, I s,T linii! 
Ilo'r. iilui.Kcl in I.Im; tide, 
ilia sli'oiig iiniis iiro diisliiiig 
Tlio big waves aside. 

0, the (lark rolling water 
Shoots swift as tlic sea, 
Hilt blithe is the glance 
or his bonny blue e'e ; 

And his cheeks are like rosos, 
Twa buds on a hough ; 
Who says ye 'I'e faint-hearted, 
My bmvo Charlie, now ? 

]lo, ho, foaniing river, 
Ye may roar as ye go, 
Hut yu caniia bear ( 'harlie 
'J'o the dark loeh lielow ! 

Come over, come over 
The river to ino, 
My true-liearted laddio. 
My Charlie niaehrco ! 

He 's sinking, he 's sinking, 
0, what shall I do ! 
Strike out, Charlie, boldly. 
Ten strokes and ye 're thro'. 

Ill' 's sinking, () Heaven ! 
Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear ; 
1 've a kiss for ye, (Charlie, 
As soon as yo 're hero I 

Ho rises, I soo him, — 
Five strokes, Charlie, inair, — 
Me 's shaking the wet 
From his bonny brown hair ; 

He eoiniuers (he eurront. 
He gains on the sea, — 
Uo, when' is tlie swimmer 
Like Charlie maehree ' 

Come over the river. 
Hut onee eome to mo, 
And 1 '11 love ye forever. 
Dear Charlie niaehroo I 

He's sinking, he 's gone, — 
God ! it is 1, 
It is I, wlio have killed him - 
Help, helii ! — he must die ! 

Hel]i, hel|i ! — ah, lie rises, - 
Strike out and yo'ro free ! 
Ho, liravely done, Charlie, 
Onee wore now, for mo 1 

Now eliiig to the roek. 
Now gie lis yer hand, -- 
Ye 're safe, dearest Charlie, 
Yo 're safe on the land ! 

Come rest in my bosom, 
I f there ye can sleep ; 
1 eanna speak to ye, 
1 only can weep. 

Ye 've crossed tlie wild river, 
Yo 've risked all for me. 
And 1 '11 part frae ye never. 
Dear Charlie niiiehiee ! 

W1I.1.IAM J. Ho 


What 's this dull town to me ? 

Koliiii 's not near, — 
He wlnnn I wished to .see. 

Wished for to hear ; 
Where 's all the, joy and mirth 
Made life a heaven on earth, 
0, they 're all fled with tliee, 

Ixobin Adair! 

What made the assembly shine? 

Kobin Adair : 
Wliat made the ball so fine ? 

liobin was there : 
What, when the play was o'er, 
What made my heart so sore 1 
0, if was imrting with 

liobin A.lair ! 

But now thou art far from mo, 

Kobin Adair ; 
But now 1 never see 

Kobin Adair; 
Yet him I loved so well 
Still in my heart shall dwell ; 
0, 1 can ne'er forget 

Kobin Adair ! 

Welcome on shore again, 

Robin Adair I 
Welcome once more again, 

Kobin Adair ! 
I feel thy trembling hand ; 
Tears in thy eyelids stand. 
To greet thy native land, 

Kobin Adair. 

Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 

Kiibiii Adair ; 
Still I prnye.l lor thee, love, 

Kobiii Adair ; 






Whin thou werl liir at aca, 
Ahuiy iiiailo lovu to me, 
lint slill 1 tlic)iij;ht uu tlicc, 
Kobiii Adaii'. 

Comic to my heart attain, 

Kohin Adair; 
NcviT to part agaiu, 

Kobiii Ailair ; 
And if thou still art true, 
I will bo constinit too, 
Ami will wed none but you, 

Hol>in Adair I 


An 'inrc a (Jrcrian maitlen wove 

llc.ryarland mid thr summer bowers, 
TliiTe stood a youth, with eyes ol' love. 

To watch her while she wreathed the llowcrs. 
Till' youth was skilled in painting's art, 

liut ne'er had studii^d woman's Iprow, 
Nor knew wliat magic hues the heart 

Can shed o'er Nature's charm, till now. 

Blest bo Love, to whom we owe 
All that '» fair and bright below. 

His haiid had pictured many a rose. 

And sket(dicd the rays that lit the brook; 
liut what wore these, or what were tliose, 

T" woman's blush, to woman's locdi < 
" (), if such magie power there b(\ 

This, this," he cried, "is all my [■i.iyer. 
To p.iiut that living light I see. 

And fix the soul that sparkles there ! " 

His prayer as soon as breathed was heard ; 

His pallet touched by Lov(^ grew warm, 
.And painting saw her thus transferred 

l''riim lifeless llowers to woman's form. 
Still, as from tint to tint he stole, 

'I'lie fair design shone out lln^ more. 
And Ihere was now a life, a soul. 

Where only .-olors glowed bcfoi'e. 

Then lirst iariiali(.n learned to speak, 

And libei into life were brought ; 
While, mantling on the maiden's elieek, 

■young kindled into thought : 
Then hyacinths their darkest dyes 

IJjion the locks of li(siuty threw ; 
And violets transformed to eyes, 

Inslirinod a soul within their blue. 

Blest be Love, to whom we owe 

All that's bright ami lair Iwdow ; 

Song was cold and [lainting dim, 

Till .song and painting learned from him. 


Nancy, wilt thou go with me. 

Nor sigh to leave the Haunting town 'f 
Can silent gleus have charms for thee. 

The lonely cot and russet gown ' 
No longer drest in silken sheen. 

No longer decked with jewels rare. 
Say, canst thou cpiit eacdi conrlly seeno 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ( 

Nancy ! when thou 'it far away. 

Wilt thou not cast a wish licdiind ? 
Say, canst thou face' the pandiing ray, 

Nor shrink before the winlry wiml 1 
0, can that .soft and gentle mien 

Kxtrenu's of hai'dshiji leaiii l.i ii i. 
Nor sad regret each courtly seen" 

WIkm-c llnai wert fairest of the fair I 

Nancy ! canst thou love so true, 

Through perils keen with me to go. 
Or when thy swain nu.shaji shall rue. 

To share with him the pang of woe ? 
Say, should disease or pain befall. 

Wilt thou assunu,' the nur.Hir's care. 
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall 

Where thou wert fairest of thc! fair ? 

And when at last thy love shall die, 

Will thou receive his parting breath ? 
Wilt thou lepress each struggling sigh, 

And cheer with smiles tlu^ bed of death 
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay. 

Strew llowers, aixl drop the tender tear. 
Nor then regret scenes so gay. 

Where thou werl fairest of I lie fair ' 


O wuisri.F, and I 'II come to yon, my lad, 
O whistle, and 1 'II eotnc to you, my lail ; 
Tho' father and mither atid a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I '11 come to you, my lad. 

Hut warily tent, when ye one' lo <'ourt me. 
And come na mdess the back-yett be a-jee ; 







Syno up Ihr l«uk .ttilo, iiiiil l>'l imolHiily moo, 
Aiul coiui' US yo wiTc im' oiiniiii' to mo. 
A.ul <oiiio, olo. 

O wl.isllo, oU'. 

At kirk, 111' 111 imirkot, whoiip'or yo moot mo, 
(lull},' liy uio iiM dm' tlml yo oiiroil imo ii Ilio ; 
lUil siriil 1110 11 Mink o' ymii- luiimio liliiok o'o, 
Vot look MS yo woio nil lookiu' at mo. 
Vol look, olo. 

(1 wliisllo, oto. 

Ayr vow iiml prulost tlml yo oiii'o ua I'dr mo, 
Ami «liilos yo may li^'lilly my boaiily a woo; 
Km ooiii't iiao aiiitlior, llio' jiikiu' yo bo, 
l''oi' loar tliat slio wilo yoiii- I'lmoy IVao mo. 
Km- loar, oto. 

O wliistlo, oto. 


fiiMi, livo wilh mo, ami l.o mv lovo, 
Aial wo will all tlio [iloa-uros piuv,' 
Thai valloys, jjrovos, and liilU, ami lioUls, 
WooiU or .stoopy moiuitaiiis, yioUls, 

Ami wo will sit Ilium tli • rooks, 
Sooiiij; tho slu'iilionls IVoil llioir Hooks 
liy shallow rivor.s, to wlioso falls 
Moloitious liinla sing mailrigiils. 

Tlioro will 1 iiiftko tlioo liods of roses 
Willi a tliousiiml fragriuit [losios ; 
.\ oa|i of llowoi's, ami a kirtlo, 
iMuluvicloroil all with loavos of myrtlo ; 

.\ gown imulo of tho tiiiost wool, 
Whioh from our |>rotty lambs wo [luU ; 
Kair-Uuoil slippors for tho oohl, 
Wilh buoklos of tho piuvst gohl ; 

A bolt of straw, ami ivy bmls. 
With coral olasps ami ainbor stmls : 
.\ml if thoso ploasuros may llioo movo, 
t'omo, livo with mo, ami bo my lovo. 

Tlu' shoplioitl swains shall ihiuoo ami .sing 
For thy ilolight oaoh May nioriiiiig : 
If thoso ilolights thy miml may niovf, 
Thou livo with mo, ami bo my lovo. 

CmtlSlv^I'IlBR MAKl-OWR. 


\v that tho worhl ami lovo woif young, 
.\ml truth in ovory shophonl's tonguo, 
Thoso pntty ploasuros might mo niovp 
To livo with tlioo anil K> thy lovo. 

Itul limoilrivos llork^ Iroiii lold lo I,, 1,1, 
Whon runs iaj;o, ami looks -row ool.l ; 
Ami I'hiloinol booomolh diiuili. 
Ami all oumplain of oaros to oonio. 

Tho llowors do fudo, and wauluii Holds 
To wayward wintor rookoning yiolds ; 
A hoiioy touguo, a hoarl of gall, 
l.s fanoy's spring, but .sorrows fall. 

'Thy gowns, thy shoos, thy bods of rosoa, 
Tliy oa|i, thy kirtlo, ami thy posios 
Soon broak, soon withor, soon I'orgotton, — 
In folly ripo, in roason rolton. 

'Thy bolt of straw and ivy buds. 
Thy ooral clasps luid ainbor studs, — 
All thoso in ino no moans can movo 
'To oomo to Ihoo, ami bo thy lovo. 

I'.nl oouKI youth last, and lovo still brood. 
Had joys no dato, nor ago no mod, 
'Thou thoso doliglits my mind might movo 
To livo with tlioo, and bo thy lovo. 



M.vrii Mrii.KU, on a summoi's ibiv, 
Uak.'d tho moadow swoot willi hay. 

Honoalh hor torn hat glowod tho woalth 
l>f simplo boauty and rustio hoallh. 

Singing, sho wrought, and hor luony gloo 
'Tho mook-bird oohood from his troo. 

I5ut, whon sho ghuiood to tho far-olf tow ii, 
Whito Iroiii its hill-slopo looking down, 

'Tho swoot song diod, and a vagno unrost 
.\iid a iiiimoloss longing lillodhor broasl, 

.\ wish, that sho hardly darod to own. 
For .somothing bettor than sho had known. 

Tho .ludgo rode slowly down tho Inno, 
Smoothing his horse's ohestnut inano. 

He diinv his bridle in the sliade 

Of tho apple ti-oos, to git-et tho mnid, 

.\nd ask a dmuglit from the spring that llowod 
Through the moadow, across the iiind, 

Sho stooped whoro the cool spring bubbled up. 
And tilled for him her small tin oii|>. 



LOVJi. 10 



And IJushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks I " said the Judge, "a sweeter drauglit 
From a fairer hand was never ijualfed. " 

He spoke of llie glass and flowers and trees. 
Of tlie singing birds and the liuniming bees ; 

Tlien talked of the haying, and wondered wliether 
The eloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
And her graeeful ankles, bare and brown, 

And listened, while a pleased surjirisc 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud .Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! 
That 1 the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine. 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth eoat, 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I 'd dress rny mother so graml and gay. 
And the iMby should have a new toy each day. 

" And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked lack as he ilimbed the hill. 
And saw Maud Muller standing still : 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet. 
Ne'er Iiath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle, and song of birds, 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sister proud and cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
When he hummed in court an old love tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well. 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
Who live<i for fashion, as he for [xjwer. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go ; 

And sweet .Vlauil Muller's liazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was re<l. 
He longed for the wayside well instea<l, 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of mea<lows and clover blooms ; 

And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, 
"Ah, tliat 1 were free again I 

" Free as when I rode that day 

Wiere the Ijarefoot maiden raked the hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children [ilayed round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth i»ain. 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown liay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

And, gazing down with a timid giace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately lialls ; 

Tlie weary wheel to a spinnet tunied, 
The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
iJozing and gnimbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side .she saw. 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again. 
Saying only, " It might have Wn." 






Alas for maiden, alas forjudge, 

For rich repiiicr and lioiiscliold drudge ! 

Cod (lity them both ! and pity us all. 
Who vainly tho (hfanis of youth rooall ; 

Kor ol' all sail words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : " It might have been ! " 

Ah, %v(dl ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Docply buried IVoni human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Koll the stone from its grave away ! 

John Gkeenleaf whittier. 


TlIROTTGii her forced, abnormal quiet 
Fla-shed the sold of frolic riot. 
And a nsost malicious laughter lighted up her 
downcast eyes ; 
All in vain 1 tried each topic. 
Ranged from polar climes to tropic, — 
Every commonplace 1 started met with yes-or-no 

Kor lier mother — stiff and stately. 
As if starched and irone.l lately — 
Sat erect, with rigid idlunvs l)edilcd thus in curv- 
ing palms ; 
There she sat on L,'n:inl bcfnn' us, 
And in words ]ir(risr, dn .nuus, 
And most calm, revicwrrl the w.ather, and recited 
several ]isalms. 

How without abruptly ending 

This my visit, and offending 
Wealthy neighbors, was the problem which em- 
|)loyed my mental care ; 

When the butler, bowing lowly, 

Utl.'red clearly, stiffly, slowly, 
"Madam, jdrase, the gardener wants you," — 

Heaven, 1 thought, has heard my prayer. 

" Pardon me ! " she grandly uttered ; 
Howing low, I gladly muttered, 
"Surely, nuidam!" and, relieved, 1 turned to 
scan the danghter's face : 
Ha ! what pent-up mirth outllashes 
From beneath those penciled lashes ! 
How the drill of Quaker custom yields to Na- 
ture's brilliant grace ! 

r.rightly springs the prisoned fountain 
From the side of Delphi's mouutuiu, 

When the stone that weighed upon its buoyant 
life is thrust aside ; 
So the long-enforced stagnation 
Of the maiden's conversation 
Now imparted fivefold brilliance to its ever- 
varying tide. 

Widely r,anging, quickly (diauging, 
Witty, winning, from beginning 
Unto end I listened, merely Hinging in a casual 
word ; 
Eloquent, and yet how simple ! 
Hand and eye, and eddying dinijile. 
Tongue and lip together made a music seen a-; 
well as heard. 

When the noonday woods are liuging. 
All the birds of summer singing, 
Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a 
serpent nigh : 
So upon the door a rattle 
Sto])ped our animated tattle, 
And the stately mother found us prim enough to 
suit her eve. 


My little love, do you remember. 

Ere we were grown so sadly wise. 

Those evenings in the bleak December, 

Cuitained warm from the snowy weather, 

When you and I played chess together, 

(.'heekmated by each other's eyes? 

Ah ! still I see your soft white hand 
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight ; 

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; 
The double Castles guard the wings ; 
The IMsliop, bent on distant things, 
Moves, sidling, through the fight. 

Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, 
And falter ; falls your golden hair 

Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen 
liides slow, her soldiery all between, 

And checks me unaware. 

Ah me ! the little Irattle 's done : 
Disperst is all its idiivalry. 
Full many a move .since then have we 
Mid life's perplexing checkers m.ade. 
And many a game with fortune played ; 

What is it we have won ? 

This, this at least, — if this alone : 



**/w suMuur. w/ifN tht' days iver^ /cwi*. 
nV xtuiikni together in the uhhh/ : 

Our hfitrt was ftght. our st^/ was strong.' 
Swret JlttttfriMg^ 7t'ert' there m'n onr blood 

In summer, when the days are /ong:*^ 




That never, never, nevermore, 

As in those old still nights of yore, 
(Ere we were gi'own so sadly wise,) 
< 'an you and 1 shut out tlie skies, 

.Shut out the world and wintry weatlier, 

And,eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, 

I'lay chess, as then we jjlayed together. 



0, DiSNA .ask me gin I lo'e ye : 

Troth, I daunia tell ! 
Diniia a.^k me gin 1 lo'e ye, — 

Ask it o' yoursel'. 

0, (linna look sae sair at me, 

For weed ye ken me true ; 
0, gin ye look .sae sair at me, 

I daunia look at you. 

Wlien ye gang to yon braw hraw town, 

And bonnier lassies see, 
0, dinna, Jamie, look at them, 

Lest ye should mind na me. 

For I could never bide the 
That ye 'd lo'e mair than ine ; 

And 0, I 'm sure my heart wad tirak, 
Gin ye 'd prove fause to me ! 

In summer, when the days were long. 
On ciainty chicken, snow-white brea<l, 

We feasted, with no grace but song ; 
We jjlucked wild strawberries, ripe and red. 

In summer, when the days were lorjg. 

We loved, and yet we knew it not, — 
For loving seemed like breathing then ; 

We found a heaven in every spot ; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men ; 

And dre.imeil of (!od in grove and grot. 

In summer, when the days are long, 
Alone I wander, muse alone. 

I see her not ; but that old song 
Under the fragrant wind is blown. 

In summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood : 
But one fair si)irit hears my sighs ; 

And half I see, so glad and good, 
The honest ilaylight of her eyes. 

That charmed me under earlier .skies. 

In sumniei, when the days are long, 
I love her as we loved of old. 

My heart is liglil, niy step is strong ; 
For love brings back houra of gold, 

lu summer, when the days are long. 



In summer, when the days were long, 
We walked together in the wood ; 

Our heart was light, our step was strong ; 
Sweet flutterings were there in our blood. 

In summer, when the days were long. 

We strayed from morn till evening came ; 
We gathered Mowers, and wove u.s crowns ; 

We walked mid poppies red as flame, 
Or sat upon the yellow downs ; 

And always wished our life the same. 

In summer, when the days were long, 
VVc h'aped the hedgerow, crossed the brook ; 

And still her voice flowed forth in song. 
Or else she read some graceful book. 

In summer, when the days were long. 

And then we sat beneath the trees. 
With shadows lessening in the noon ; 

And in the sunlight and the breeze. 
We feasted, many a gorgeous .June, 

While larks were singing o'er the leas. 


Am, thoughts, all jjassions, all delights. 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er .again that happy hour. 
When midway on the mount I Lay 
IJeside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the armtd man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 







1 played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story, — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And tliat for ten long years he wooed 
Tlie Lady of tlui' land. 

I told licr how he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
Willi which 1 sang another's love 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a Hitting blnsli, 
With ilowneast eyes, and modest grace; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

ISut wlieu 1 tuld the cruel scorn 
Tliat crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods. 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome sliade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came and looked him in tlie face 
All angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And savi'd from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; 

Anil how she wept, and clasped liis knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain ; 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave. 
And how his madness went away. 
When on th(' yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 

— His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing luirp 
Disturbed her soul with pity. 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The imisie and the doleful tale. 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long. 

She wept with pity and delight. 
She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard lier breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved, — she stejiped aside. 
As conscious of my look she slept, — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
Slio fled to me and wept. 

She lialf enclosed me with her arms. 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up. 
And gazed upon my lace. 

'T was partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 'twas a baslil'ul art 
That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed !ier fears, and slie was calm, 
And told lier love with virgin pride ; 
Anil so I won my (ienevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Hride. 


Come, all ye jolly sheiiherds. 

That whistle throngh the glen ! 
I '11 tell ye o' a secret 

That courtiers dinna ken : 
What is the greatest bliss 

That the tongue o' man can name ? 
'T is to woo a bonnie lassie 
When the kye come hame. 
Ifhcn the kye come hame, 
li'hcn the k)je come hame, — 
'Tira-n the gloamin an the mirk, 
H'hen the ki/e come luime. 

'T is not beneath the burgonet. 

Nor yet beneath the crown ; 
'T is not on couch o' velvet, 

Nor yet in bed o' down : 
'T is bi'iieatli the spreading liirk. 

In the glen without the name, 






W'i' ;l bonuie bonnie lassie. 
When the kye come hame. 

Tliere the blackbird bigs his nest, 

For the mate he lo'es to see, 
Ami ou the tapmost bough 

O, a happy l)ird is he ! 
There he pours his melting ditty, 

And love is a' the theme ; 
And he '11 woo his bonnie lassie, 

When the kye come hame. 

Wlien the blewart bears a pearl. 

And the daisy turns a pea, 
And the bonnie lucken gowan 

Has fauldit up his ec, 
Then the lavrock, frae the blue lift, 

Draps down and thinks nae shame 
To woo his bonnie lassie, 

When the kye come hame. 

See yonder pawky shepherd. 

That lingers on the hill : 
His yowes are in the fauld, 

And his lambs are lying still ; 
Yet he dowua gang to bed. 

For his heart is in a flame. 
To meet his bonnie lassie 

When the kye come hame. 

When the little wee Lit heart 

Rises high in the breast, 
And the little wee bit stam 

Rises red in the east, 
0, there 's a joy sae dear 

That the heart can hardly frame ! 
Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie. 

When the kye come hame. 

Then since all Nature joins 

In this love without alloy, 
0, wha wad prove a traitor 

To Nature's dearest joy ? 
Or wha wad choose a crown, 

Wi' its perils an' its fame. 
And miss his bonnie lassie, 

When the kye come luime ? 


The country ways are full of mire. 
The boughs toss in the fading light,. 

The winds blow out the sunset's fire. 
And sudden droppeth down the night. 

I sit in this familiar room, 

Where mud-splashed hunting sijuires resort 

My sole companion in the gloom 
This slowly dying pint of port. 

'Mong all the joys my soul hath known, 

'Mong errors over which it giieves, 
I sit at this dark hour alone. 

Like Autumn mid his withered leaves. 
This is a night of wild farewells 

To all the past ; the good, the fair ; 
To-morrow, and my wedding bells 

Will make a music in the air. 

Like a wet fisher, 

Who sees throughout the weltering night. 
Afar on some low-lying coast. 

The streaming of a rainy light, 
I saw this hour, — and now 't is come ; 

The rooms are lit, the feast is set ; 
W^ithin the twilight 1 am dumb. 

My heart filled with a vain regret. 

I cannot say, in Eastern style. 

Where'er she treads the pansy blows ; 
Nor call her eyes twin stars, her smile 

A sunbeam, and her mouth a rose. 
Nor can 1, as your bridegrooms do, 

Talk of my raptures. 0, how sore 
The fond romance of twenty-two 

Is parodied ere thirty-four. 

To-night I shake hands with the past, — 

Familiar years, adieu, adieu ! 
An unknou7i door is open cast, 

An empty future wide and new 
Stands waiting. ye naked rooms, 

Void, desolate, without a charm. 
Will Love's smile chase your lonely glooms, 

And drape your walls, and make Ihem warm ! 

The man wlin knew, while lii' was young. 

Some soft and soul-subduing air. 
Melts when ngain he hears it sung, 

Although 't is ordy half .so fair. 
So I love thee, and love is sweet 

(My Florence, 't is the cruel truth) 
Because it can to age rei) 

That long-lost passion of my youth. 

0, often did my spirit melt. 

Blurred letters, o'er your artless rhymes ! 
Fair trees, in which the sunshine dwelt, 

I 've kissed you many a million times ! 
And now 't is done, — my passionate tears. 

Mad pleadings with an iron fate, 
And all the sweetness of my years. 

Are blackened ashes in the grate. 

Then ring in the wind, my wedding chimes ; 
Snnle, villagers, at every door ; 






Old churchyard, stuffed with buried crimes, 
Be clad in sunshine o'er and o'er ; 

And youthful maidens, white and sweet, 
Scatter your blossoms far and wide ; 

And with a bridal chorus greet 

This hajijiy bridegroom and his bride. 

"This happy bridegroom ! " there is sin 

At bottom of my thankless mood : 
What if desert alone could win 

For me life's chiefest grace and good ? 
Love gives itself ; and if not given. 

No genius, beauty, state or wit. 
No gold of earth, no gem of heaven, 

Is rich enough to purchase it. 

It may be, Florence, loving thee. 

My heart will its old memories keep ; 
Like some worn sea-shell from the sea, 

Filled with the music of the deep. 
And you may watch, on nights of rain, 

A shadow on my brow encroach ; 
Be startled by my sudden pain. 

And tenderness of self-reproach. 

It may be that your loving wiles 

Will call a sigh from far-otT years ; 
It may be that your happiest smiles 

Will brim my eyes with hopeless tears ; 
It may be that my sleeping breath 

Will shake, with painful visions wrung ; 
And, in the awful trance of death, 

A stranger's name be on my tongue. 

Ye phantoms, born of bitter blood, 

Ye ghosts of passion, lean and worn. 
Ye terrors of a lonely mood, 

Wliat do ye here on a wedding-morn ? 
For, as the dawning sweet and fast 

Through all the heaven spreads and flows. 
Within life's discord, rude and vast. 

Love's subtle music grows and grows. 

And lightened is the weaiy curse. 

And clearer is the weary road ; 
The very worm the sea-weeds nurse 

Is cared for by the Eternal God. 
My love, pale blossom of the snow, 

Has ])ierced earth wet mtli wintry showers,- 
O may it drink the sun, and blow. 

Followed by all the year of flowers ! 

Black Bayard from the stable bring ; 

The rain is o'er, the wind is down, 
Round stin'ing farms the birds will sing. 

The dawn stand in the sleeping town. 
Within an hour. This is her gate, 

Her sodden roses droop in night. 

And, emblem of my happy fate. 
In one dear window there is light. 

The dawn is oozing pale and cold 

Through the damp east for many a mile 
When half my tale of life is told, 

Grim-featured Time begins to smile. 
Last star of night that lingerest yet 

In that long rift of rainy gray. 
Gather thy wasted splendors, set. 

And die into my wedding day. 

Ale.\a.\der Smith. 


And there two runners did the sign abide 
Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and fair. 
Crisp-haired, well knit, with firm limbs often tried 
In places where no man his strength may spare ; 
D.ainty his thin coat was, and on his hair 
A golden circlet of renown he wore. 
And in his hand an olive garland bore. 

But on this day with whom shall he contend ? 
A maid stood by him like Diana clad 
When in the woods she lists her bow to bend, 
Too fair for one to look on and be glad, 
Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had, 
If he must still behold her from afar ; 
Too fair to let the world live free from war. 

She seemed all earthly matters to forget ; 
Of all tormenting lines her face was clear ; 
Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set 
Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near; 
But her foe trembled as a man in fear. 
Nor from her loveliness one moment turned 
His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. 

Now through the hush there broke the trum- 
pet's clang. 
Just as the setting sun made eventide. 
Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang. 
And swiftly were they running side by side ; 
But silent did the thronging folk abide 
Until the turning-post was reached at last. 
And round about it still abreast they passed. 

But when the people saw how close they ran, 
W^hen half-way to the starting-point they were, 
A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man 
Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near 
Unto the very end of all his fear ; 
And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, 
And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal. 







But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard 
Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound 
( )f fluttering raiment, and thereat afeared 
H is flushed and eager face he turned around, 
And even then he felt her past him bound 
I'leet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there 
'I'ill on the goal she laid her fingers fair. 

There stood she, breathing like a little chUd 
Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep, 
I'or no victorious joy her red lips smiled, 
Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep ; 
No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep. 
Though some divine thought softened all her face 
As once more rang the trumpet through the place. 

But her late foe stopped short amidst his course. 
One moment gazed upon her piteously. 
Then with a groan his lingering feet did force 
To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see ; 
And, changed likeone who knows his time must be 
But short and bitter, without any word 
He knelt before the bearer of the sword ; 

Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, 
Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded jjlace 
Was silence now, and midst of it the maid 
Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace. 
And he to hers upturned his sad white face ; 
Nor did his eyes behold another sight 
Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. 

William MorriS- 


Now has the lingering month at last gone by. 
Again are all folk round the running place. 
Nor other seems the dismal pageantry 
Than heretofore, but that another face 
Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race, 
For now, beheld of all, Milanion 
Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. 

But yet — what change is this that holds the 
maid ? 
Does she indeed see in his glittering eye 
More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, 
Some happy hope of help and victory ? 
The others seemed to say, " We come to die. 
Look down upon us for a little while. 
That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." 

But he — what look of mastery was this 
He cast on her ? why were his lips so red ? 
Why was his face so flushed with happiness ? 
So looks not one who deems himself but dead, 
E'en if to death he bows a willing head ; 

So rather looks a god well pleased to find 
Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. 

Why must she drop her lid.s before his gaze. 
And even as she casts adown her eyes 
Redden to note his eager glance of praise. 
And wish that she were clad in other guise ? 
Why must the memory to her heart arise 
Of things unnoticed when they first were heard. 
Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word ? 

What makes these longings, vague, williout a 

And this vain pity never felt before. 
This sudden languor, this contempt of fame. 
This tender sorrow for the time past o'er. 
These doubts that grow each minute more and 

more ? 
Why does she tremble as the time gi'ows near, 
And weak defeat and woful victory fear ? 

But while she seemed to liear lier beating heart. 
Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out. 
And forth they sprang ; and she must play her 

jiart ; 
Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, 
Though slackening once, she turned her liead 

But then she cried aloud and faster fled 
Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. 

But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, 
.\nd thence what seemed a ray of light tlierc flew 
And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; 
Then trembling she her feet together drew. 
And in her heart a strong desire there grew 
To have the toy ; some god she thought had given 
That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. 

Then from the course with eager steps she ran. 
And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. 
But when she turned again, the great-limbed man 
Now well ahead she failed not to behold, 
And mindful of her glory waxing cold, 
Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, 
Thougli with one hand she touched the golden 

Note, too, the how that she was wont to hear 
She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize. 
And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair 
Three aiTows fell and lay before her eyes 
Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries 
She sprang to head the strong Milanion, 
Who now the turning-post had wellnigh won. 

But as he set his mighty hand on it, 
White fingers underneath his own were laid. 






And wliiti' limbs I'roni his dazzled eyes did Hit, 
Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, 
Hut she ran on awhile, then as afraid 
Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no 

Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 

Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, 
Now far ahead the Argive could she see. 
And in her garment's hem one hand she wound 
To keep the double prize, and strenuously 
Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she 
To win the day, though now but scanty spaci; 
Was left betwixt him and the winnmg place. 

Short was the way unto such winged feet. 
Quickly she gained upon him, till at last 
He turned about her eager eyes to meet. 
And from his hand the third fair apple cast. 
She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast 
After the prize that should her bliss fulfill, 
That in her hand it lay ere it was still. 

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win 
Once more, an unblest woful victory — 
And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin 
To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? 
Why fails she now to see if far or nigh 
Tlie goal is ? why do her gray eyes grow dim ? 
Why do these tremors run through every limb ? 

She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find 
Else must she fall, indeed, and findetli this, 
A .strong man's arms about her body twined. 
Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss. 
So wrapped she is in new, unbroken bliss : 
Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, 
She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. 




Air.';, that wander and murmur round. 
Bearing delight where'er ye blow ! 

Make in tlie elms a lulling sound. 
While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 

Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest. 

Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er. 
Sweet be her slumbers ! though in my breast 

The pain she has waked may slumber no more. 
Breathing soft from the blue profound. 

Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 
Make in the elms a lulling sound. 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 

Airs ! that over tlie bending boughs. 

And under the shade of pendent leaves, 
Munnur soft, like my timid vows 

Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves, — 
Gently sweeping the grassy ground. 

Bearing delight where'er ye blow. 
Make in the elms a lulling sound. 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 



0, BEST of delights, as it everywhere is, 

To be near the loved one, — what a rapture is his 

Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may 

O'er the Lake of Cashmere with that one by his side ! 
If woman can make the worst wUderuess dear. 
Think, think what a heaven she must make of 

Cashmere ! 

So felt the magnificent Son of Acliar, 
When from power and pomp and the trophies of war 
He flew to that valley, forgetting them all 
With the Light of the Harem, his young Nour- 

When free and uncrowned as the conqueror roved 
By the banks of that lake, -with his only beloved. 
He saw, in thewreaths shewould playfully snatch 
From the hedges, a: glory his crown could not 

And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that 

Down her exijuisito neck to the throneof the world! 

There 's a beauty forever unchangingly bright. 
Like the long .sunny lapse of a summerday's light. 
Shining on, shiningon, by no shadow madetemler, 
Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. 
This was not the beauty — 0, nothing like this. 
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss. 
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, 
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it Hies 
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the 

eyes ; 
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, 
Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his 

dreams ! 
When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace. 
That charm of all others, was born with her face ; 
And when angry, — for even in the tranquilest 

Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes, — 
The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken 
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when 





If tenderness touched her, the dark of lier eye 

At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye. 

From the depth of whose shadow, like holy re- 

From innermost shrines, came the liglit of her 

feelings ! 
Then her mirth — 0, 't was sportive as ever 

took wing 
From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird 

in spring, — 
llhimed by a wit that would fascinate sages. 
Vet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages. 
While her laugh, full of life, without any control 
liut the sweet one of gracefidness, rung from her 

soul ; 
And where it most sparkled no glance could dis- 
In lip, cheek, oreyes, forshe brighteneilall over, — 
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon. 
When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the 

Such, such were the peerless enchantments that 

Nourmahal the proud Lord of the Kast for her 

slave ; 
And though bright was his Harem, — a living 

Of the flowers of this planet, — though treasures 

were there, 
For which Solomon's self might have given all 

the store 
That the navy from Ophir e'er winged to his shore. 
Yet dim before licr were the smiles of them all, 
And the Light of his Harem was young Nounnahal ! 
TiioMAS Moore. 




A Man of Cyprus, a Sculptor named Pygmalion, made an lm.ige 
of a Woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the 
end came to love his own handiworlt as though it had been alive ; 
wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obtained his cud, for she 
made the image ahve indeed, and a Woiuan. and Pygmalion wedded 

At Amathus, that from the southern side 
Of Cyprus looks across the .Syrian sea. 
There did in ancient time a man abide 
Known to the island-dwellers, for that he 
Had wrought most godlike works in imagery, 
And d.ay by day still greater honor won, — 
Which man our old liooks call Pygmalion. 

The lessening marble that he worked upon 
A woman's form now imaged doubtfully ; 
And in such guise the work had he begun, 
Because when he the untouched block did see 
In wandering veins that form there seemed to be, 

Whereon he cried out in a careless mood, 
" lady Venus, make this presage gootl ! 

"And then this blockof stone .shall bethy maid, 
And, not without rich golden ornament, 
Shall biile within thy ijuivering myrtle-shade." 
So spoke he, but the goddess, well content. 
Unto his hand such godlike masteiy sent. 
That like the first artificer he wrought. 
Who made the gift that woe to all men brought. 

And yet, but such as he was wont to do. 
At first indeed that work divine he deemed, 
And as the white chips from the I'hisi'l Hew 
Of other matters languidly he dnamnl, 
p'or easy to his haiiil that labor s'_riiiiil. 
And hewas stirred with many atroubling thought. 
And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought. 

And yet, again, at last there came a day 
When smoother and more shapely grew the. stone, 
And he, grown eager, put all thought away 
But that which touched his craftsmanship alone. 
And he would gaze at what his hands had done, 
Until his heart with boundless joy wouUl swell 
That all was wrought so wonderfully well. 

Yet long it was ere he was .satisfied, 
;Vntl with his pride that by his mastery 
This thing was done, whose ei[ual far and wide 
In no town of the world a man could see, 
(^amc burning longing that the work should be 
E'en better still, and to his heart there came 
A strange and strong desire he ivmhl not name. 

The night seemed long, and long the twilight 

A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair ; 
Though through the night still of his work he 

And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it 

That thence he could behoM the marble hair. 
Naught was enough, until with steel in hand 
He came before the wondrous stone to stand. 

Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught, 
And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly 
Upon the marvel of the face lie wrought, 
E'en as he used to the long days by ; 
But his sighs changed to sobbing presently. 
And on the floor the useless steel he flung. 
And, weeping loud, about the image clung. 

"Alas! " he cried, "why have I made thee then, 
That thus thoxi raockest me ? I know indeed 
That many such as thou are loved of men, 
Whose passionate eyes poor wTetches still will lead 
Into their net, and smile to see them bleed ; 







I '.III llirso Iht Gods luiuk', ;iiul Uiishaiul maile theo 
Who wilt not speak one littlo word to luu." 

'I'licii IVoiu the inmye did ho draw aliack 
'I'o g;i/A' uu it throiigli tuars ; and you llad said, 
Kc'gariliiig it, that little ilid it lack 
To bo a living and most lovely maid ; 
Naked it was, its unbound looks wore laid 
Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand 
Reaehed out, as to a lover, did it stand. 

Tlie dllici' belli a lair roso ovor-blown ; 
Nu smili' was un the' i)arted lijis, tho eyes 
Seemed as il' oven now great love had shown 
Unto tliem something of its sweet surjiriso, 
Yet saddened them with hall'-seen mysteries. 
And still midst passion maiden-like she soeniod, 
As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed. 

lieproachfuUy beholding all her grace, 
I'ygnialion stood, until he grew dry-eyed. 
And tlieu at last ho turneil away liis face 
As if I'roni her cold oyi'S his grief to hide ; 
.\Hd thus a weary while did ho abide. 
With nothing in his heart but vain desire, 
The iver-buniing, unconsuming fire. 

Xo word indeed the moveless imago said. 
But with tho sweet grave eyes his hands had 

Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head ; 
Yet his own words some solace to him brought, 
(Ulding the net whoroin his soul was caught 
With something like to hope, and all tiuit day 
Some tender words ho ovor founil to say ; 

And still ho i'clt as sonu>thing heard him speak; 
Sometimes he jjraised her beauty, and somoliui 
Koproachod her in a feeble voice and weak. 
And at tho last drew foi'th a book of rliynws, 
Wherein were writ the tales of many climes. 
And read aloud the sweetness hid therein 
0( lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin. 

And wIlcii the sun went down, the frankincense 
Again upon the altjir-llauie he cast 
That through tho open window floating thence 
O'er the fresh odors of the garden passed ; 
And so another day was gone at last, 
And he no more his lovelorn watch could keep, 
lint now for utter weariness iiuist sleep. 

But tlie nextuuirn, e'en whilethe ini'cnse-smoke 
At sunrising curled round about her head. 
Sweet sound of songs the wonted ipiiet broke 
nown in the street, and he, by something led. 
He knew not what, uuist leave liis ju-ayer unsaid, 
.■\ud through the freshness of the morn must see 
Tho folk who went with that sweet minstrelsy ; 

Damsels and youths in woiulerfnl attire, 
And in their midst upon a car of gold 
An image of the Mother of Desire, 
Wrought by his hands in days that seemed grown 

Though those sweet limbs a garment did enfold, 
Colored like llamo, enwrought with precious 

Most fit to be the prize of striving kings. 

Tlieu he romombored that the nuiuner was 
That I'air-clad jiriests the lovely CJueeu shouldtake 
Thrice in tho year, and through the city pass. 
And with sweet songs tho dreaming folk awake ; 
And through tho clouds a light there seemed to 

When he remembered all the tales well told 
About her glorious kindly deeds of old. 

So his unfinished prayer he finished nut, 
But, kneeling, ouco more kissed the marble fi'ct, 
And, while his Iioart with many thoughts \va.\ed 

He clad himself with fresh attire and meet 
For that bright service, and with blossoms sweet 
Entwined with tender leaves he crowned his head. 
And followed after as the goddess led. 

.So tliere he stood, that help from her to gain, 
Bewihha'cd by that twilight midst of day ; 
Downc'ast with listening to the joyous strain 
He hud no part in, hopeless with delay 
Of all the fair things he had meant to say : 
Yet, as the incense on the llame ho east. 
From stammering lips and jialo these words there 
passed, - 

" O thou forgotten lielp, dost thou yet know 
What thing it is I need, when even I, 
Bent down before thee in this shame ami woo, 
Can I'rame no sot of words to tell thee why 
1 needs must pray, O hell) ""' *"' ' ^^^^ • 
Or slay me, and in slaying take from me 
Kven a dead man's feeble memory. 

Yet soon, indeed, before his door ho stood, 
And, as a num awaking from a dream. 
Seemed waked from his old folly ; naught seemed 

In all tho things that ho before had doomed 
At least worth life, and on his heart there streamed 
Cold light of day, — he found himself alone, 
lleft of desire, all love and nnuiuoss gone. 

Thus to his chamber at the last he came. 
And, pushing through the still half-opened door, 
Ho stood within ; but there, for very shame 
Of all the things that he had done before. 
Still kept his eyes bent down upon the floor, 







Thinking of all that he haj done and said 
Since he had wrought that luck less marble maid. 

Yet soft his thoughts were, and the very place 
Seemed perfumed with some nameless heavenly ail'. 
So gaining courage, did he raise his face 
Unto the work his hands had made .so fair, 
And cried aloud to sec the niche all bare 
Of that sweet form, while through liis heart again 
There shot a pang of his old yearning pain. 

Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do 
With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came, 
A shaft of new desire now pierced liim through, 
And therewithal a soft voice called his name. 
And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame. 
He saw betwi.xt him and the setting sun 
The lively image of his loved one. 

He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes, 
Hirr very lips, were such a.s he had made. 
And though her tresses fell but in such guise 
As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed 
In that fair gannent that the priests had laid 
l-'pon the goddess on that very morn, 
Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn. 

' Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear. 
Simple and sweet as she was wont to be, 
And once again her silver voice rang clear. 
Filling his soul with great felicity. 
And thus she spoke, "Wilt thou not come to me, 
dear companion of my new-fmind life, 
For I am called thy lover and thy wife ' " 

She reached her hand to him, and with kind 
Gazed into his ; but he the fingers caught 
And drew her to him, a:id midst ecsta-sies 
Passing all words, yea, wellnigh passing thought. 
Felt that sweet breath that he so long had sought, 
Felt the warm life within her heaving breast 
.As in his arms his living love he pressed. 

But as his cheek touched hers he heard her say, 
"Wilt thou not speak, love? why dost thou 

weep ? 
Art thou then sorry for this long-wished day, 
Or dost thou think perchance thou wilt not keep 
This that thou boldest, but in dreamy sleep? 
Xay, let us do the bidding of the Queen, 
And liand in hand walk through thy garden 

green ; 

" Then shalt thou tell me, still beholding me. 
Full many things whereof I wish to know. 
And as we walk from whispering tree to tree 
Still more familiar to thee .shall I grow, 
And such things shalt thou say unto me now 

As when thou deemedst thou wast quite alone, 
A madman kneeling to a thing of stone." 

But at that word a smile lit up his eyes 
And therewithal he spake some loving word, 
And she at first looked up in grave suiprise 
When his deep voice and musical she heard. 
And clung to him as somewhat grown afeard ; 
Then cried aloud and said, "O mighty one ! 
What joy with thee to look upon the sun ! " 

Then into that fair garden did they pass, 
And all the story of Ids love he told. 
And as the twain went o'er tlie dewy grass. 
Beneath the risen moon could he behohl 
The bright tears trickling down, then, wa.'cen 

He stopped and said, "Ah, love, what meaneth 

this ? 
Seest thou how tears still follow earthly bliss !" 

Then both her white arms round his neck she 
And sobbing said, "O love, what hurteth me ? 
When first the sweetness of my life I knew, 
Xot this I felt, but when I lirst saw thee 
A little pain and great felicity 
Hose up within me, and thy talk e'en now 
Made pain and pleasure ever greatei- grow." 

" sweet," he said, "this thing is even love, 
Whereof I told thee ; that all wise men fear. 
But yet escape not ; nay, to gods above. 
Unless the old tales lie, it draweth near. 
But let my happy ears, I pray tln-e, licar 
Thy story too, and how thy lilesse<l birth 
Has made a heaven of this once lonely earth." 

" My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise. 
Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell. 
But listen : when I opened first mine eyes 
1 stood within the niche thou knowcst well. 
And from mine hand a heavy thing there fell 
Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things 

And but a strange confused noise could hear. 

" At last mine eyes could see a woman fair. 
But awful as this round white moon o'erhead, 
.So that I trembled when I saw her there. 
For with my life was bom some touch of dread. 
And therewithal I heard her voice that said, 
' Come down, and learn to love and be alive, 
For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give. ' 

"Then on the floor I stepped, rejoicing much, | 
Not knowing why, not knowing aught at all. 
Till she reached out her hand my to touch. 
And when her fingers thereupon did fall, J 







Tliouglit came unto my life, and therewithal 

I knew Iier for a goddess, and hegaii 

To niurnuir in some tongue unknown to man. 

" iVnd then indeed m)t in lliis guise was I. 
No sandals had 1, and no safl'ron gown, 
But naked as thou knowest utterly, 
lO'en as my limbs beneath thine hand had grown, 
And this fair ])erl'umed robe then fell adown 
(.)ver the goddess' feet and swept the ground, 
And round her loins a glittering belt was bound. 

" I'ut when the stammering of my tongue she 
Upon my trembling lips her hand slie laid, 
Anil spoke again, ' Nay, say not any word. 
All that thine heart would say I know unsaid. 
Who even now thine heart and voice have made ; 
But listen rather, for thou knowest now 
What those words mean, and still wilt wiser grow. 

'"Thy body, lifeless till 1 gave it life, 
A certain man, my servant, well hath wrought, 
I give thee to him as his love and wife, 
With all thy dowry of desire and thought, 
Since this his yearning heart hath ever sought ; 
Now from my temple is he on the way. 
Deeming to find thee e'en as yesterday ; 

" ' Bide thou his coming by the bed-head there. 
And wdieu thou seest him set his eyes upon 
Thine empty niche, and hear'st him (n-y for care. 
Then call him by his mmie, Pygmalion, 
And certainly thy lover hast thou won ; 
But when ho stands before thee silently. 
Say all these words that I shall teach to thee.' 

' ' With that she said what first I told thee, love. 
And then went on, ' Moreover thou shalt say 
That 1, the daughter of almighty Jove, 
Have wrought for him this long-desired day ; 
1 n sign whereof, these things that pass away. 
Wherein mine image men have well arrayed, 
I give thee for thy wedding gear, maid. ' 

" Tlicn witli lirr i.iiinent she put off from her, 
And Ini.l bare »U lirr perfect loveliness, 
And, smiling on me, came yet more anear. 
And on my mortal li]is her lips did [u-ess. 
And said, ' Now herewith shalt thou love no less 
Than Psyche loved my son in days of old ; 
Karewell, of thee shall many a tale be told.' 

" And cvin with that last word was she gone, 
Mow, 1 know not, and I my limbs arrayed 
In her fair gifts, and waited thee alone — 
Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said. 
For now I love thee so, 1 gi-ow afraid 

Of what the gods upon our heads may send — 
I love thoe so, I think upon the end." 

What words ho .said ? How can 1 tell again 
What words they said beneath the glimmering 

Some tongue they used unknovm to loveless men 
As each to each they told their great delight. 
Until for stillness of the growing night 
Their soft sweet murmuring words seemed grow- 
ing loud. 
And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud. 

The gray sea, and the long black land ; 
And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
And the startled little waves, that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach ; 

Three fields to cross, till a farm appears : 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 

And blue spurt of a lighted match. 

And a voice less loud, through its joys ami fears, 

Than the tw'o hearts, beating each to each. 



What change has made the pastures sweet, 
And reached the daisies at my feet, 

And (doud that wears a golden hem ? 
This lovely world, the hills, the sward, — 
They all look fresh, as if our Lord 

Hut yesterday had finished them. 

And here 's the field with light aglow ; 
How fresh its boundary lime-trees show ! 

And how its wet leaves trembling shino ! 
Between their trunks come through to me 
The morning .sparkles of the sea. 

Below the level browzing line. 

I see the pool, more clear by half 
Than ])ools where other waters laugh 

Up at the breasts of coot and rail. 
There, as she passed it on her way, 
I saw reflected yesterday 

A maiden with a milking-pail. 





There neither slowly nor in haste, — 
One hand upon her slender waist, 

Tlie other lifted to her jiail, — 
She, rosy in the morning light, 
Among the water-daisies white. 

Like some fair slooj) appeared to sail. 

Against her ankles as she trod 
The lucky huttei-i:ups did nod : 

I leaneil upon the gate to see. 
The sweet thing looked, but did not speak ; 
A dimple came in either cheek. 

And all my lieart was gone from me. 

Then, as I lingereil on the gate. 
And she eame up like coming fate, 

I saw my picture in her eyes, — 
Clear dancing eyes, moi'e black than sloes I 
Cheeks like the mountain pink, that gi'ows 

Among white-headed majesties ! 

I saiil, " A tale was made of old 
That 1 would fain to thee imfold : 

Ah I let me, — let me tell the tale." 
Bui high she held her comely head : 
" I cannot heed it now," she said, 

" For carrying of the milking-pail." 

She laughed. What good to make ado ? 
I held the gate, and she came through, 

And took her homeward path anon. 
From the clear pool her face had lied ; 
It rested on my heart instead, 

lietlected when the maid was gone. 

With happy youth, and work content, 
So sweet and stately, on she went. 

Right careless of the untold tale. 
Each step she took I loved her more, 
And followed to her dairy <loor 

The maiden with the milking-pail. 

For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, 
Plow fine, how blest a thing is work ! 

For work does good when reasons fail, — 
Good ; yet the ax at every stroke 
The echo of a name awoke, — 

Her name is Mary Martindale. 

I 'm glad that echo was not heard 
Aright by other men. A bird 

Knows doubtless what his own notes tell 
And 1 know not, — but I can say 
I felt as shamefaced all that day 

As if folks heard her nanjc ri'dit well. 

And when the west began to glow 

I went — I could not choose but go — 

To that same dairy on the hill ; 
And while sweet Mary moved about 
Within, 1 came to her without. 

And leaned upon the window-sill. 

The garden border where I stood 

Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. 

I spoke, — her answer seemed to fail. 
I smelt the [jinks, — I coidd not see ; 
The dusk came down and sheltered me ; 

And in the dusk she heard ray tale. 

And what is left that I should tell ? 
I begged a kiss, — 1 pleaded well : 

The rosebud lips did long decline ; 
r.ut yet, I think — I think 't is true — 
That, IciUied at last into the dew. 

One little instant they were mine ! 

life ! how dear thou hast become ! 
She laughed at dawn, and 1 was dumb ! 

But evening counsels best prevail. 
Fair .shine the blue that o'er her spread.s, 
Green be the pastures where she treads. 

The maiilen with the milking-pail 1 



Trr.N, turn, for my cheeks they bum, 

Tuni by the dale, my liany ! 
' Fill pail, fill pail, 

J le has turned by the dale. 

And there by the stile waits Harry. 
I Fill, fill. 

Fill pail, (ill, 

For there by the stile waits Harry ! 

The world may go round, the world may stand still. 

But I can milk and marry, 
I Fillpail, 

1 can milk and marry. 

I Wheugh, wheugh ! 
0, if we two 

Stood down there now \>y the water, 
I know who 'd carry me over the ford 
As brave as a soldier, as proud as a lord. 
Though I don't live over the water. 
Wheugh, wheugh ! he 's whistling through. 
He's whistling "The Fanner'.s Daughter." 
Give down, give down, 
My cnimpled brown ! 
He shall not take the road to the town, 
For I '11 meet him beyond the water. 
Give down, give down, 
.My crumpled brown ! 






And send me to my Harry. 

The folk o' towns 

May have silken gowns, 

l!ut I can milk and marry, 


1 can milk and marry. 

Wheugh, wlu-ugh ! he has whistled through, 

He has whistled throngh the water. 

Kill, fill, with a will, a will. 

For he 's whistled throngh the water. 

And he 's whistling down 

The way to the town. 

And it 's not " The Farmer's Daughter ! " 

Churr, churr ! goes the cockchafer. 

The suu sets over the water, 

Churr, churr ! goes the cockchafer, 

1 'm too late for my Harry ! 

And, 0, if he goes a-soldiering, 

The cows they may low, the bells they may ring 

Hut I '11 neither milk nor marry, 


Neither milk nor marry. 

My brow beats on thy Hank, FUlpail, 

Give down, good wench, give down ! 

I know the primrose bank, Filljiail, 

Between him and the town. 

Give doAvn, good wench, give down, Fillpail, 

iiul he shall not reach the town ! 

?train, strain ! he 's whistling again, 

He 's nearer by half a mile. 

Wore, more ! 0, never before 

Were you such a weary while ! 

Fill, fill ! he 's crossed the hill, 

I can see him down by the stile. 

He 's passed the hay, he 's coming this way. 

Ho 's coming to me, my Harry ! 

Ciive silken gowns to the Iblks o' towns. 

He 's coming to me, my Harry ! 

There 's not so grand a dame in the land. 

That she walks to-night with Harry ! 

Come late, come soon, come sun, come moon, 

O, I can milk and many, 


1 can milk and marry. 

Wheugh, wheugh ! he has whistled through. 

My Harry ! my lad ! my lover ! 

••■^et tlie sun and fall the dew. 

Heigh-ho, merry world, what's to do 

That you 're smiling over and over ? 

Up on the hill and down in the dale. 

Ami along the tree-tops over the vale 

Shining over and over. 

Low in the grass and high on the bough. 

Shining over and over, 

O world, have you ever a lover? 

You were so dull and cold just now. 

world, have you ever a lover ? 

1 could not see a leaf on the tree, 

And now I could count them, one, two, three. 

Count them over and over. 

Leaf I'rom leaf like lips apart. 

Like lips apart for a lover. 

And the hillside beats with my beating heart, 

.\nd the apple-tree blushes all over. 

And the May bough touched me and made me 

And the wind breathes warm like a lover. 

Pull, pull ! and the pail is full, 

And milking 's done and over. 

Who would not sit here under the tree ? 

What a fair fair thing 's a green field to see ! 

Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me ! 

I have set my jiail on the daisies ! 

It seems so light, — can the sun be set ? 

The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet. 

I could cry to have hurt the daisies ! 

Harry is near, Harry is near. 

My heart 's as sick as if he were here. 

My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet. 

He hasn't uttered a word as yet. 

But the air 's astir with his imiises. 

My Harry ! 

The air's astir with your praises. 

He has scaled the rock by the pi.xy's stone. 

He's among the kingcups — he picks me one, 

I love the grass that I tread upon 

When I go to my Harry ! 

He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the 

There 's never a faster foot I trow. 
But still he seems to tarry. 

Harry ! Harry ! my love, my pride. 
My heart is leaping, my arms are wide ! 
KoU up, roll up, you dull hillside, 

KoU up, and bring my Harry ! 

They nmy talk of glory over the sea. 

But Harry 's alive, and Harry 's for me. 

My love, my lad. my Harry ! 

Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow. 

What cares Dolly, whether or no, 

While I can milk and marry ? 

Right or wrong, and wrong or right. 

Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight. 

But I '11 bring my pail home every night 

To love, aud home, and Harry ! 

AVe '11 drink our can, we '11 eat our cake. 

There 's beer in the barrel, there 's bread in the 

The world may sleep, the world may wake. 
But I shall milk and marry. 
And marry, 

1 shall milk and marry. 








TuE little gate was reached at last, 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
A wistful look she backward cast, 
And said, " Auf wicderschen /" 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again, 
Half doubting if she did aright. 
Soft as the dews that fell that niglit, 
She said, "Aufwiedcrsrheii:" 

Thi- lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose i-ich air 
To breathe in thought 1 scarcely dare, 

Thinks she, " Auf viiedcrsehen I" 

'T is thirteen years : once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
1 smell the lilacs, and — ah yes, 
1 hear " Aiif wiulcrschcn ! " 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain. 
But these — they drew us heai-t to lieart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, "Auf wiedersehen ! " 

James Russell Lowe; 


I GREW assured, Ijefore I asked. 

That she 'd be mine without reserve, 
And in her unclaimed graces basked 

At leisure, till the time should serve, — 
With just enough of dread to thrill 

The hope, and make it trebly dear ; 
Thus loath to speak the word, to kill 

Either the hope or happy fear. 

Till once, through lanes returning late. 

Her laughing sisters lagged behind ; 
And ere we reached her father's gate. 

We paused with one presentient mind: 
And, in the dim and perfumed mist 

Their coming stayed, who, blithe and free. 
And very women, loved to assist 

A lover's opportunity. 

Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word ; 

To faint and frail cathedral chimes 
Spake time in music, and we heard 

The chafers rustling in the limes. 

• Till we meet again ; like au revotr in French. 

Her dress, that touched me where I stood ; 

The warmth of her confided arm ; 
Her bosom's gentle neighborhood ; 

Her pleasure in her power to charm ; 

Her look, her love, her form, her touch ! 

The least seemed most by blissful turn, 

Ulissful but that it pleased too much, 

And taught the wayward .soul to yearn. 
It was as if a harp with wires 

Was traversed by the breath I drew ; 
And 0, sweet meeting of desires ! 

She, answering, ownied that slie loved too. 




'My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they 'vc dropt into 
the well. 

And what to say to Mu(;a, I cannot, cannot tell. " 

'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albu- 
harez' daughter, — 

"The well is deep, fardown they lie, beneath -he 
cold blue water. 

To me did Mucjagive them, when he sjiakc lii^ ,ad 

And what to say when he comes back, alas! 1 can- 
not tell. 

" Jly car-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls 

in silver .set, 
Tliat wlieu my Moor was far away, I ne'er should 

him tbrget. 
That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smili^ 

on other's tale. 
But remember he my lips had kissed, piireas those 

ear-rings pale. 

When he comes back, andhears that lhavedropi)ed 
them in the well, 

0, what will Mu9athinkof me, I cannot, cannot tell. 

" My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! he '11 say tliey 
should have been, 
j Not of pearl and silver, but of gold and glittering 
i sheen, 

Of jasperandofonyx, andofdiamoiid.shiningclear, 
Changing to the changing light, with radiance 

insincere ; 
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not 

befitting well, — 
Thus will he think, — and what to say, alas ! I can- 
not tell. 

"He'll think when I to market went I loitered by 

the way ; 
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads 

might say ; 






— *-tl 


Ho "11 lliink soiuo oUvov lovi>i''s liaiul, ;>mi>uj; my 
t\x\<sos iu»v<oil, 

Kwiu tlio rill's wluMV ho Usui jiltu'inl thorn iny rings 
of [wivl ui>KH>soii ; 

llo '11 think whon I was spoilinj; so Invsido this 
nnu'Wo woU. 

My jHHii'ls loll in, !«n>i what to Siiv, silasl 1 can- 
not toll. 

■■llo'lls)>y 1 rtiuawotnan, andwoaivall thos;nno; 
Ho "11 say 1 IovxhI whon ho was hoiv to whisi«>v of 

his lliinto, — 
Unt whon ho wont to Tunis niy vii'gin twtlt had 

And thoiij'ht no nioiv ot' Xlu\-a, an>l oaivil not fov 

his tokou. 
Mv ««--vi«^ ! jnv OiU'-riit^ ! 0. luokloss, Inokloss 

woU ! 
For what to say to Mu\'i>, tvks ! I oannot toll. 

" 1 '11 toll tho truth to Mnija, ami 1 hojH> ho will 

That 1 'vo thought of hint at tnorning. and 

thvxight of him at ovo ; 
That musing on my lovor, whon dowit tho sun w!«s 

His <>j>r-rings in my hand I hold, hy the fountain 

all aloiu> ; 
.\ndthat my miudwits o'or tho sort, whon ftvm tuy 

hand thoy toll, 
Andthat doophis lovo lios in my h<\>rt, as thoy lio 

in tho woU. " 

,lonN i;n'.s\"»N lovkhakt. 


l-K».VM " V»V. VRINv-KSS." 

" SwAi.i.OW, SwiUlow, Hying, living South, 
Fly to hor, and fall ujHUt hor jj'ldoil oaws. 
And toll hor, toll hov what 1 toll to tlioo. 

"ll toll hor. Sw)vllow, thou that knowx\<!t oaoli. 
That hright Mid liorvv and tioklo is tho South, 
And dark and true and tondor is tho North. 

"0 Swiilhw, Sw!illv>w, if I ivnld follow arid 
I'jHMi hor lattivw 1 would jujw ami trill. 
And oluvp and twittor twonty million lo\"<>s, 

■•0 wor»> 1 thvm that sho might tako mo in. 
And lay mo on hor Kv<oin, and hor hoart 
Would r\H-k tho snowy oradlo till 1 dioil ! 

•• Why lingojioth sho to olotho hor hoart with 
IVlayiiig ,^s tho toiidor sish dolaj-s 
I'o olotho horsolf, whon all tho wovvls aro grxvn ? 

"0 toll hor, Swallow, that thy hivod is llowu. 
Say to hor, 1 do but wanton in tho South, 
Uut in tho North long siiioo my nost is mado. 

"l^ toll hor. hriof is lifo, hut lovo is long. 
And hriof tho sun of summor in tho Norlli, 
And hriof tho moon of Iwiuty in tho Snutli, 

" Swallow, Hying fiMiu tho goldon womls. 
Fly to hor, and iiipo and woo hor, and mako hrt 

And toll hor, tell hor, that 1 I'oUow thoo." 




Ask mo no moro : tho moon may ditiw tho so« ; 
Tho olond may stoop fivm hoavon and tako 

tho shaiH', 
With fold to told, of nuninlain or of oaju* ; 
Ihlt, Otoo I'ond ! whon havo I answoivvl thoo! 
Ask mo no moro. 

Ask mo no moiv : w hat auswor should I givo ) 
I lovo not hollow ohook or fadoil oyo ; 
Yot, my iVioud, I will not havo thoo dio ! 

Ask mo no moiv, lost 1 should hid llnv livi- ; 
Ask mo no moiv. 

Ask tno no moiv : thy fato and mino aiv sojiUhI : 
I strovo against tho stivtuu, tuid all in vain : 
l^'t tho giwit rivor tako mo to tho main : 
No moro, d«U' lovo, for at a tonoh 1 yiold ; 
Ask mo no moiw 

ALKRUO Tknnvson. 

ATHVl.F AXP irmu.fA. 

Atiivi.v. . . . Ai>jvai\>d 

Tho prinooss with that niorry ohild Trinoo l',uy 
Ho lovos mo woll, and mado hor stop and sit. 
And Silt nnon hor knoo, and it so ohaiKwl 
That in his \-;irious ohattor ho doniivd 
That 1 oould hold his hand within my own 
So olos»>ly as to hido it : this Iwing trio<l 
AVas piMvotl iigainst him ; ho insistwl thou 
I Ov^nld not hy his ivyal sistor's hand 
T>o likowiso. Starting at tho random woi\l. 
And dumh with tiv|>idatioii, thoiv 1 stivnl 
Sonio s<H.HMids as Ivwitohwl : thon I hnikwl ujv 
And in hor fai-o Ivhold an orient flnsh 
Of half-howilder»\l pleasure : from whieh tranet 
She with <ui instant oiiso ivsninwl herst>lf. 
And fmnkly, with a pletistuit laugh, hold out 
Her arrvwy hand. 

1 thought it tivinWeil as it lay in mine, 
Hut vet her Uvks were oh\>r, dirxx-t, and five. 






And said that ubc felt nothing. 

fillJliix:. And wJiat ff;lt'»t thou ? 

Atjici.f, a fiort of (iwarmiiig, curling, tremu- 

louB tumbling, 
As though ther<; were an ant-hill in my lx>«om. 
I Hnid I wafi aximJiifA. — SHroc, you smile, 
If at my folly, well ! But if you fcmile, 
Su^picioufi of a taint ujKin my Iwairt, 
Wide hi your error, and you never lovi^I. 

Hl;M<y TAVt/JR. 




1 LEAXKn out of window, I smelt the whit<; cbver, 
Dark, <iark was the garden, I i>aw not the gaVr ; 
"Xow, if there be f'xit«te[«, li* i-'juum, my one 
lover — 
Hujih, nightingale, hush ! sweet nightin- 
gale, wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a (Step draweth near. 
For my love he in lat« ! 

"The skies in the darkness stAXip n'sirer and 

A ';lu*t«r of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, . 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : 

To what art thou listftniug, and what do*t thou 

I>;t the Ktar-duKtcrs glow, 
Let the «we«t waters (low, 
And cross (juickly to me. 

" You night-rnoths that hover where honey brims 
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway dis- 
To him that cjmes darkling along the rough 
Ah, my sailor, make has-te, 
For the time runs to wa*-te, 
And my love lieth deep, — 

"Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one lover, 
I 're cjnned thee an answer, it waits thee to- 
By the sycamore jiasse'i he, and through the white 
clover ; 
Then all the sweet speech I ha/1 fashioned took 
But 1 '11 love him more, more 
Tlian e'er wife loved >>efore. 
Be the days dark or bright. 




" Fausb diamond s":! in flint I liard h':«irt in 

liaughty breast ! 
Byasfjfter, warmer bosom the tigcr'scouch is prest. 
Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as 

the win'l. 
And the restless ever-mounting (lame i* not more 

hard to bin<L 
If the tears I shcl were tongues, yet all to*/ few 

would 1/e 
To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown 

t/t me. 
Oh ! I could chide theesharidy, — but every maiden 

Tliat she who chides her lover forgives him ere 

he goes. 

"Thou hast called me oft tlie flower of all Ora- 

naila's maids. 
Thou hast said that by the side of me the 6r?t and 

fairest fa/ies ; 
And they thought thy heart was mine, and it 

seemwl to every one 
TIjat wliat tiifiu d'ulst Ui win my h/ve, for love of 

me was done. 
Alas ; if they l>ut knew thee, as mine it is to know, 
Tliey well might see another mark to which thine 

arrows go ; 
But thou giv'st little hee*!, — for I si<eak to one 

who knows 
That she who chides her lover forgives him ere 

he goes. 

"It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep 

and Vjear 
\S'hat fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my 

own with care. 
Tliou art leagued with those that hate me, and 

ah ! thou know'st I feel 
That cruel wopis as surely kill as sharpest bla/les 

of steel. 
'T was the doubt that thou wert false that wrung 

my heart with pain ; 
But, now I knowthy perfidy, I shall be well again. 
I would proclaim thee as thou art — but every 

maiden knows 
Tliat she who chides her lover forgives him ere 

he goes." 

Thus Fatima complain«<l to the valiant Eaduan, 

Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's foun- 
tains ran : 

The Moor was inly mo ve*!, and blameless as he was. 

He took her white hand in his own, and plea;le<l 
thus his cause : 






" lady, dry thosu star-like eyes, — their dim- 
ness does me wrong ; 

If my heart be made of Hint, at least 't will keep 
thy image long ; 

Thou hast uttered cruel words, — but I grieve the 
less for those. 

Since she who chides hor lover forgives him ere 
he t;oes." 



Mkllow the moonlight to shine is beginning ; 
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning ; 
Bent o'er the tire, her blind grandmother, sitting. 
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily kiut- 

ting, — 
" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
"'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass 

" Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
"'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer 

wind dying." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot 's 

stirring ; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 
Thrills tlie sweet voice of the voung maiden siug- 

" What 's that noise that I hoar at the window, 
I wonder ! " 

"'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush 
under. " 

" What makes you be shoving and moving your 
stool on, 

And singing all wrong that old song of 'The 
Coolun' ? " 

There's a fonn at the casement, — the form of 
her true-love, — 

And he whispers, with face bent, " I 'm waiting 
for you, love ; 

Get up on the stool, through the lattice step 

We '11 rove in the grove while the moon 's shin- 
ing brightly." 

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot 's 
stirring ; 

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing. 

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden sing- 

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fin- 

Steals np from her seat, — longs to go, and yet 
linsjers ; 

A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand- 

Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with 
the other. 

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; 

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound ; 

Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 

The maid steps, — then leaps to the arms of her 

Slower — and slower — and slower the wheel 
swings ; 

Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings ; 

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and 

Through the grove the young lovers by moon- 
light are roving. 



Six skeins and three, six skeins and three ! 

Good mother, so you stinted me, 

And here they be, — ay, six and three ! 

Stop, busy wheel ! stop, noisy wheel ! 
Long shadows down my chamber steal. 
And warn me to make haste and reel. 

'T is done, — the spinning work complete ; 

heart of mine, what makes you beat 
So and sweet, so fast and sweet ? 

1 must have wheat and pinks, to stick 
My hat from brim to ribbon, thick, — 
Slow hands of mine, be quick, be quick ! 

One, two, three stars along the skies 
Begin to wink their golden eyes, — 
I '11 leave my thread all knots and ties. 

moon, so red ! moon, so red ! 
Sweetheart of night, go straight to bed ; 
Love's light will answer in your stead. 

A-tiptoe, beckoning me, he st.-mds, — 
Stop trembling, little foolish hands. 
And stop the bands, and stop the bands ! 


Somebody 's courting somebody 
Somewhere or other to-night ; 
Somebody 's whispering to somebody, 
Somebody 's listening to somebody. 
Under this clear moonlight. 



— R-, 


Near the bright river's flow, 
Kunning so still and slow, 
Talking so soft and low, 
She sits with somebody. 

Pacing the ocean's shore, 
Edged by the foaming roar, 
Words never used before 
Sound sweet to somebody. 

Under the maple-tree 
Deep though the shadow be, 
Plain enough they can see, 
Bright eyes has somebody. 

No one sits up to wait. 
Though she is out so late, 
All know she 's at the gate. 
Talking with somel>ody. 

Tijjtoe to parlor door, 
Two shadows on the floor, 
Moonlight, reveal no more, 
Susy and somebody. 

Two, sitting side by side, 
Tloat with the ebbing tide, 
" Thus, dearest, may we glide 
Through life," says somebody. 

Somewhere, somebody 
Makes love to somebody 



If he 's capricious, she '11 be so ; 

But, if his duties constant are, 
She lets her loving favor glow 

As steady as a tropic star. 
Appears there naught for which to weep. 

She '11 weep for naught for his dear sake ; 
She cla.sps her sister in her sleep ; 

Her love in dreams is most awake. 
Her soul, that once with pleasure shook 

Did any eyes her beauty own. 
Now wonders how they dare to look 

On what belongs to him alone. 
The indignity of taking gifts 

E.'ihQarates her loving breast ; 
A rapture of submission lifts 

Her life into celestial rest. 
There 's nothing left of what she was, — 

Back to the babe the woman dies ; 
And all the wisdom that she has 

Is to love him for being wise. 
She 's confident because she fears ; 

And, though discreet when he 's away. 
If none but her dear despot hears, 

She '11 prattle like a child at play. 

Percliauce, when all her is said. 

He tells the news, — a battle won — 
On either side ten thousand dead, — 

Describing how the whole was done : 
She thinks, " He 's looking on my lace ! 

I am his joy ; whatc'er I do. 
He sees such time-contenting grace 

In that, he 'd have me always so ! " 
And, evermore, for cither's sake, 

To the sweet folly of the dove 
She joins the cunning of the snake, 

To rivet and exalt his love. 
Her mode of candor is deceit ; 

And what she thinks from what she '11 say 
(Although I '11 never call her cheat) 

Lies far as Scotland from Cathay. 
Without his knowledge he was won, 

Against his nature kept devout ; 
She '11 never tell him how 't was done. 

And he will never find it out. 
If, sudden, he suspects her wiles. 

And hears her forging chain and trap. 
And looks, — she sits in simple smiles. 

Her two hands lying in her lap : 
Her secret (privilege of the Bard, 

Whose fancy is of either sex) 
Is mine ; but let the darkness guard 

Mysteries that light would more perplex. 
Coventry I'atmore. 


BoxxiE wee thing ! cannie wee thing ! 

Lovely wee thing ! wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully I look, and languish. 

In that lx>nnie face o' thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit and grace, and love and beauty. 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee Is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom. 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 



BELiEVEme, if all those endearing young charms. 
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. 

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms. 
Like fair}--gifts fading away. 







'I'luHi u,, Hlill Ik' a.lomi, us Has niuMirnt llioii 

Li'l lliy Iiivi^liiii'ss rude as it will, 
Ami liioiunl llir (luiir mill eiicli wisli of my lu'iirt 

WiuiKI I'Mlwiiu^ itsolf voi-iliilitly still. 

II is iiol wliilr hrauly and youth aro tliiiu^ own, 

Ami lliy ( lirckH uii|irolUiiod by a tear, 
riial I lir I.I v.T and liiilli of a soul may bo known, 

'I'u «liic li liiiic will but nuikc thee more dear! 
(I, the Ilea It lliat has truly loved never I'orgcts, 

Hut as truly loves on to the eloso, 
As the Nunllower turns to her f;od when he sets 

The same l(,oU which she turned wluMi lu' rose ! 



\ \',,\\i after year unto licr feet, 

She lying on her eoueh alone, 
Across tlui imrple eoverlel. 

The nuiiden's jet-black hair has grown ; 
On either side her Iram-ed form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; 
The shuiili'rous light is rich and warm, 

And moves iiol on Ihc n.nndcd curl. 

The silk slur-broidcrcd cvcrli.l 

Unto her limbs itscli ,l,.|li mould, 
Languidly ever ; niul imud 

Ib^r full black ringlels, downward rolled, 
(ilows forth each softly shiLdowed arm, 

Willi bracelets of Ihe diamond bright. 
Her constant bcauly dulli inform 

Stillness Willi love, and day wllh light. 

She sleeps | her breathings are not heard 

In palace ehanibors far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirred 

That lie uiion her eharmed heart. 
She sleeps ; on either hand njiswells 

The golddVinged pillow lightly piest ; 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

.\ iicrfecl form ill perfect rest. 


1 k(tM •••rilH OAV OKHAM." 

A ToiUMl, a kiss I (ho eharm was sna]it. 

There roao n noise of striking idocks ; 
And feet that ran, and doors that elapt, 

.\nd barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined alt ; 

.\ breeze through all the garden swept; 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall ; 

Ami sixty feet the fountain leapt. 

The hedge broke in, the banner Vilew, 

The butler drank, the steward serawlcil, 
The lire shot up, the martin Hew, 

The parrot .scii^amcd, the peacock s.padlcd ; 
The maid and page renewed their strife ; 

The palace banged, iind buzzed, ami <lackt; 
Ami all the long-pent stream of life 

Dashed clownward in a cataract. 

And last of all Ihc king awoke. 

And in his chair himself npreared. 
And yawned, and rubbed his face, ami spoke; 

" liy holy rood, a royal beard I 
How say you ( we have slejit, my lonls ; 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
'I'lic barons swore, with many words, 

'T was but an after-dinner's na]i. 

"I'ardy!" returned the king, " but still 

My joints are soniething stilf or so. 
My lord, ami shall we pass the bill 

I mentioned half an hour ago?" 
The chancellor, .sedate and vain. 

In courteous words retnrneil rejily ; 
lint dallied with his golden chain. 

And, smiling, jiut tlie question by. 


Ami on her lover's arm she leant, 

.\iid louiid her waist she felt il fold ; 
And far the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old. 
Across ihe hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And di'c|i into the dying day, 

Tlu' happy princess folhiwc.l him. 

" 1 'd sleep another huudivd years, 

O love, for such another kiss !" 
"(), wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, streamed through many a golden bar, 

The twilight mdlcd into ninni. 

" O eyes long laid in laqipy sleep !" 

"(V happy sleep, that lightly lied!" 
"0 liajipy kiss, that woke thy .sleep!" 

"O love, thy kiss would wake the dead! 
And o'er them many a llowing range 

Of vapor buoyeil the crescent Iwrk ; 
And, rapt through many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 





"A Imnilred sumiiiers! can it ha! 

And wIiillRT goc-st thou, tell me where !" 
" (», si'i-k my lUlhci's court with me, 

i'or IhiTi' arc greater woiidera there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Uryond their utmost purple rim, 
IJcyonil the nif,'lit, aeross the day, 

Thr..u;^h all the worlil she followed him. 



St. Aoxes' Eve, —ah, bitti-i' .Ijill it was! 

I'lic owl, for all liis fcather.s, was a-eold ; 

'I'lie haro limpe<l trembling through the frozen 

And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the beadsman's lingers while lie told 
His rosary, and wliile his frosted breath. 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
.Sccmeil taking llight for heaven witliout a death, 
I'ast the sweet virgin's pii;tur<', while his [Mayer 

hi, sailh. 

His prayer ho .saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, 
And liai'k rcturneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow di'grees ; 
The sculptured dead, on eatdi side seemed tofreeze, 
Imprisoiicil in black, purgatorial rails; 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orafrics. 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
Tolliinkhowtheyniayache in icyhoodsand mails. 

Northw.ard he turneth tlirough a little door. 
And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no, — already had his deatli-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were .said and sung ; 
His was harsh ponance on St. Agues' Kve ; 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Ivoiigh ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for situujrs' sake to 


Tliat ancient beadsman heard tin: prelude soft : 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 
from hurry to and fro. Soon, uj) aloft. 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; 
■fhe level chambers, ready with their pride. 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests. 
With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise 
on their breasts. 

At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
Numerous as shadows haunting ('airily 
The brain, new-stu(fed, in youth, with triumphs 


Of old romance. let us wish away ; 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. 
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many limes de- 


They told her how, u]«m St. Agnes' Kve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight. 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but rcc|uire 
Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; 
The music, yearning like a god in pain. 
She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine, 
Fi.ved on the floor, saw many a swee|jing train 
Pass by, — she heeded not at all ; in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
And back retired, not cooled by high disdain. 
But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; 
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing ([uick and short ; 
The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs 
.\mid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
Of whi.sperers in anger, or in sport ; 
Hid looks of love, defiance, hate, and si;orn. 
Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
.■Vuil all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

So, pui-jmsing each moment to retire, 
Slie lingered still. Meantime, across the moors. 
Had come young Porpliyro, with heart on fire 
I'Vjr .Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
I'uttressed from moonlight, stands he, and im- 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline ; 
But for one moment in the tcilious hours. 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss, — in sooth 
such things have been. 





He veutures in ; let no buzzed wliis|)ei- tell ; 
All eyes be iiiullled, or n hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel ; 
For him, those chiunliiis lirl.i laibariun hordes, 
Hyena foemeu, and li^l liliH.d.d lords, 
Whoso very dogs would cxrcnitioMs howl 
Against his lineage ; not one breast allbrds 
Him any mercy, in that nuinsion foul, 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 

All, lia|i]iy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Sliullliiig along with ivory dicaded wand, 
To « liere he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-jiillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland. 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand, 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this 

,,lace ; 
They are all hero to-night, the whole bloodthirsty 

"Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarfish Hikie- 

braud ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursfed thee and thine, both house and land; 
Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tamo for his gray hairs — alas mo ! Hit ! 
Flit like a ghost away ! " — " Ah, gossip dear. 
We 're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit, 
And tell me how" — "Good saints, not here, not 

here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy 



He followed through a lowly arched way, 
Hrushing the cobwebs with his lofty iilume : 
And as she muttered " Well-a — well-a-day ! " 
lie found him in a little moonlight room, 
I'nle, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he; 
" O, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Whi(di none but secret sisterhood may see, 
Wlien they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

" St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve, — 
Yet men will nnn'der upon holy days ; 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 
And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays, 
To venture so. It fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' F,ve ! 
(!od's help ! my lady fair the conjurer jilays 
This very night ; good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, I ve mickle time to 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 

While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 

Like jiuzzled urchin on an aged crone 

Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book. 

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 

His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 

Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. 

And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose. 

Flushing his brow, and in his jiained heart 

JIade purple riot ; then doth he propose 

A stratagem that makes the beldame start : 

" A cruel man and impious thou art ! 

Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream 

Alone with her good angels, far apart 

From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! 1 deem 

Tliou canst not surely be the same tluit thou didst 

" 1 will not harm her, by all saints I swear ! " 
Quoth Porphyro ; "0, may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
1 f one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with rufiian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
Awake, with homd shout, my foemen's ears. 
And beard them, though they be more fanged 
than wolves and bears." 

" Ah ! why wilt thou atfright a feeble soul ? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. 
Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she 

A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
AVhatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and thei'e hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied. 
And win )Hili:ips tb;it niulit a peerless bride 
While lri:ioiiril liiiiirs pa. rd tlic coverlct. 
And \<a\r inrlMutiLiriit li.ld her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrou: 






" It shall be as thou wishest," said tlie dame ; 
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tambour 

Her own lute thou wilt see ; no time to spare, 
For 1 am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in 

The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly passed : 
The dame returned, and whispered in his ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed and 

chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her 


Hfr faltering hand upon the balustrade, 
<>lil Angela was feeling for the stair, 
Wlifn iEadeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid. 
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware ; 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turned, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Poi^phiTo, for gazing on that bed ! 
She comes, she comes again, like a ling-dove 
frayed and fled. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died ; 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide ; 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her 

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood ol 
queens and kings. 

Full on this ca.sement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest. 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glorj', like a saint ; 
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest. 
Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint : 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 


Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. 
Of all its wTeathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Unclasps her wanned jewels one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; 
Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is 


Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay. 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; 
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
PorphjTO gazed upon her empty dress. 
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 
And breathed him.self ; then from the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide 
And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept. 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo! — how 
fast she slept. 


A casement high and triple-arched there was, 

.All garlanded mth can-en imageries 

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 

.\nd diamonded with panes of quaint device. 

Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 

As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; 

And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
O for some drowsy Jlorphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 






Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered ; 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, ijuince, and plum, and gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinut with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez ; and spicW dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 

These delicates he heaped with glowing hand 

On golden dishes and in baskets bright 

Of wreathfed silver. Sumptuous they stand 

In the retired i^uiet of the night. 

Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 

" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 

Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; 

Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 

Or I shall di'owse beside thee, .so my soul doth ache." 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains ; — 't was a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as icM stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; 
It seemed he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoiled in wooffed fantasies. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumxdtuous, — and, in chords that tendevest be. 
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy"; 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; 
He ceased — she panted ijuick — and suddenly 
Her blue afl'rayed eyes wide open shone ; 
Upon his knees he sank, pale assmooth-sculptured 


Her eyes were open, but .she still beheld. 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. 
There was a painful change, that nigh expelled 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep ; 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep. 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly . 

"Ah, Porphyro! " said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear ; 
How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and 

drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 
0, leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thoudiest, my love, Iknownotwhere to go.' 

Beyond a man impassioned far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet ; meantime the frost-wiud blows 
Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath 


'T is dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet ; 
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
'T is dark ; the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
" No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — 
Adove forlorn and lost, with sick, unpruned wing." 

' ' My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 

Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil 

dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest. 
Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide. 
Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side ; 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; 
Tlie chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
The keytm-ns,and the door upon its hinges groans 




And they are gone ! ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the baron dreamt of many a woe, 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large eotiin-worm. 
Were long be-nightniared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform; 
The beadsman, after thousand aves told. 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 
JOHN Keats. 


My girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair, 

A soft hand, like a lady's, small and fair, 

A sweet face pouting in a white straw bonnet, 

A tiny foot, and little boot upon it ; 

And all her finely to charm beholders 

Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. 

The plain stuff-gown and collar white as suow, 

And sweet red petticoat that peejis below. 

But gladly in the busy town goes she. 

Summer and winter, fearing nobodie ; 

She pats the pavement mth her fairy feet. 

With fearless eyes she charms the crowded street ; 

And in her pocket lie, iu lieu of gold, 

A lucky sixpence and a thimble old. 

We lodged in the same house a year ago 
.■-he on the topmost floor, I just below, — 
She, a poor milliner, content and wise, 
1. a poor citj' clerk, vrith hopes to rise ; 
And, long ere we were friends, I learnt to love 
The little angel on the floor above. 
For, every morn, ere from my bed I stirred. 
Her chamber door would open, and I heard, — 
And listened, blushing, to her coming down, 
And palpitated mth her rustling gown. 
And tingled while her foot went downward slow, 
Creaked like a cricket, passed, and died l)elow ; 
Then, peeping from the window, pleased and sly, 
1 saw the pretty shining face go by. 
Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet, — 
A sunbeam in the quiet morning street. 

And every night, when in from work she tript. 
Red to the ears, I from my chamber slipt. 
That I might hear upon the narrow stair 
Her low "Good evening," as she passed me there. 
And when her door was closed, below sat I, 
And hearkened stilly as she stirred on high, — 
Watched the red firelight shadows in the room. 
Fashioned her face before me in the gloom. 
And heard her close the window, lock the door, 
MoWng about more lightly than before. 

And thought, " She is undressing now ! " and O, 

My cheeks were hot, my heart was in a glow ! 

And I made pictures of her, — standing bright 

Before the looking-glass in bed-gown white. 

Unbinding in a knot her yellow hair. 

Then kneeling timidly to say a prayer ; 

Till, last, the floor creaked softly overhead, 

'Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed, • — 

And all was hushed. Yet still I hearkened on. 

Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone ; 

And saw her slumbering with lips apart. 

One little hand upon her little heart, 

The other pillowing a face that smiled 

In slumber like the slumber of a child. 

The bright hair shining round the small white ear, 

The soft breath stealing visible and clear. 

And nii.\ing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam 

Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream. 

How free she wandered in the wicked place. 
Protected only by her gentle face ! 
She saw bad things, — how could she choose but 

see '! — 
She heard of wantonness and misery ; 
The city closed around her night an<l day, 
But lightly, happily, she went her way. 
Nothing of evil that she saw or heard 
Could touch a heart so innocently .stirred 
By simple hopes that cheered it through the storm. 
And little flutterings that kept it warm. 
No power had she to reason out her needs. 
To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds ; 
But she was good and pure amid the strife, 
By virtue of the joy that was her life. 
Here, where a thousand spirits daily fall. 
Where heart and soul and senses turn to gaTl , 
She floated, pure as innocent could be, 
Like a .small sea-bird on a stormy sea, 
A\Tiich breasts the billows, wafted to and fro. 
Fearless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow. 
While the clouds gather, and the waters roar. 
And mighty ships are broken on the shore. 

'T was when the spring was coming, when the 
Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow. 
And girls were selling violets in the town. 
That suddenly a fever struck me down. 
The world was changed, the sense of life was pained, 
And nothing but a shadow-land remained ; 
Death came in a dark mist and looked at me, 
I felt his breathing, though I could not see. 
But heavily I lay and did not stir, 
.\nd had strange images and dreams of her. 
Then came a vacancy : with feeble breath, 
I shivered under the cold touch of Death, 
And swooned among strange visions of the dead. 
When a voice called from heaven, and he fled ; 


1 i:' 


An.l su.l.l.Mily 1 wiil;,MM'.l, ms it s.vinca, 

Imuiu :i .1c.,'|.'s1,m'|. wlu'iviii 1 hii.l iiol iliviiuiod. 

Ami it Wiis iii^'l.t, lUi.l 1 .'"iiM srraii.l luMi-, 
Al.a 1 Wiisill 111.' n.i.l.l I llrM ;.n,l.':ll, 
A.I.I .iii,.w.iiv, sIivI.'L.mI ..lit 111.,. II my l.i'.l, 
1 h.'iiik,' I l'..r .1 l....lsl,'|. ..v.'iIh'ii.I. 

I'.iil all WHS IuisIhhI. 1 liu.Uo.l iiri.inul tlic room, 
An.l slowly iiiiiiU. oiil sliiiii.'s umi.l tlio gloom. 
'I'll.' Willi WHS iviUli'iK'il by a rosy light, 
A I'liiiil liiv llickcivil, iiiiil 1 kiii'W 't was iiiglit, 
lln'iiiisc lii'low (lu'i'c was a souml of I'l-ot 
Hying away along the iiuict stivi'l, 
When, tuniiiig my l>alo I'lu'o ami sighing low, 
I saw II vision in thi' .[iiii't gh.w : 
A lit 1 1.' Ii;,'iiiv. in !i .■otion gown, 

I Ml.:; ii|...n Ih.' lire an.l slooliiiig ilown, 

II. I I., mo, luT I'ufi' illnnu'il, sin. oyi-.l 
'I'w.. .'hostnuts Imniiug slowly, siilo liy siilo, — 
111 r lips aiiart, lior oU'iir eyes straini'il to sco, 
llcr litlli. hamls claspi'd tight aroniul lu'V Uno.', 
'I'll.' liroliglil gloaming on her gohli-n hi'iul, 
An.l tinting li.T whito neck to i-osy rc.i, 
II. T I'l'iitiiros bi-ighl, ami hoantil'nl, iin.l pnri'. 
With rhil.lish t'cav ami yoarning hall' ilomur.'. 
O swi'i'l. swi'i't: ilroani ! I thought, an.l strainoil 

Ki'aring to i.ivak Iho sp.'ll with wofils ami sighs. 

.■^ol'tly sho atoopod, hor tlear laco swut'tly fair, 
.\ml swept iM' sinco a light liko lovo was thoro, 
Hrighti'uing, watohiiig, moro ami moro olato, 
As Iho nuts glowoil togotlicr in the grato, 
Craokling with littlojots of iU'ry light, 
Till si.lo liy siilo thoy turiioil to ashes white, — 
'I'lieu np siie h'ai>t. her faee east olf its fear 
l''..i' rapture that itself was railianee elear, 
An.l w.mlil have elai.peil lier little hamls in glee, 
Kilt. pa\isiug, hit her lips ami peeped at nu-, 
.\n.l met the faee that yearned on Iter so whitely, 
An.l gave a ery ami trembled, blushing brightly, 
Wliil.'. raise.lon elbow, iis she turned to llee, 
•■ /'<.//(/ ,■" I .'lied. ami grew as red as she I 

It WM 



for soon niv thoughts wen 


An.l she ...uhl l.'ll in.' all. ami 1 .'onl.l hear ' 
II. .\v ill my siekness fri.'mlless 1 had lain ; 
I1..W the har.l jieoph' pitied not my pain ; 
II. .w. in .lespite of what ba.l people said, 
.sh.. l.'l't her labors, slopjH'd besi.le my be.l. 
An.l nursed me, tluid;ing sa.Uy 1 woul.l .lie ; 
lli.w, in the eml, the danger passeil me by : 
How she had .sought to steal away befoi-e 
The siekness pa.ssed, and 1 was strong om'ouiore. 
l!y tits .she told the story in lllin.' ear. 
And trembled all the telling with a fear 

Lest by my e.dd man's heart she shouhl 1 hid. 

Lest 1 shouhl think hor bold in wh.'it sh,' .li.l ; 

Hut, lying on my bed, I dared to say, 

ll..\v 1 had wntehod and loved her nuiiiy a day; 

How dear she was to me, and dearer still 

Kor that .strange kindness done wliile I \\!is ill ; 

Ami how 1 eouhl but think that lleav.n al.ov.' 

Had ilone it all to bind our lives in lov.'. 

And I'oUy eriod, turning her faee away. 

And seemed afraid, and answered "yea" nor 

"nay" ; 
Then stealing eloao, with little pants ami sighs. 
Looked on my pale thin fiu'e and earnest eyes, 
Ami .seemed ill net to lling her arms about 
My neek, then, blushing, paused, in llulteriug 

Last, s]>rang np..n i\iy h.'arl. sighing an.l sob- 
bing, — 
That 1 might feel how gladly hers was throbbing! 

Ah I ne'er shall 1 forget until 1 die 
How happily the dri'amy days went by. 
While 1 grew well, aml'lay with soft lieart-beat.s, 
lleiu'k'ningtlie pleasant murmur from the streets, 
.\u.l I'oUy by mo like a sunny beam, 
.Villi life all ehangod, and lovo a drowsy dr.'ani ,' 
'T was happiness enough to lie and see 
The little golden head bent droopiugly 
Over its sewing, while the still time Hew, 
.\nil my fmul eyes were dim with happy dew! 
.\nil thi'ii, when 1 was nearly well and strong, 
Ami she went baek to labor all day long. 
How sweet to lie alone with half-slnit eyes, 
And hear the distant niurnuus and the cries, 
And think how pure she was from pain and sin, — 
And how the sumnu'r days were eoming in ! 
Then, as the sunset faded from the room, 
To listen for her footstep in the gloom. 
To pant as it eame stealing up the stair. 
To feel my whole life brighten uiui«are 
When the soft tap eame to the door, and when 
The door was opened for her smile again ! 
liest, the long evenings ! — when, till late at night. 
She sat beside me in the ipiiet light, 
.\n.l happy things were said and kisses won. 
And serious gladness found its vent in fun. 
Sometiuu's I would draw elose her shining hea.l, 
.Ami poui' her bright hair out upon the be.l. 
Ami she would laugh, and blush, and try to .s.'ol.l, 
While "llei-e," 1 eried, "1 eount my wealth in 
gohl ! " 

Om-e, like a little sinner for tnmsgressiou. 
She blushed upon my and madeeoufessiou ; 
How, when that night 1 woke and looked aroumi, 
1 foitud her busy with a eliarm profound, — 
tine ehestnut was herself, my girl eonfesjsod, 
The other was the person .she loved best, 




Anil ir ll/i-y Imriicd toffcUic-r M'lii liy m\i:, 
i\f Icivril Ihm, ai](l hIii; would Ijccimie lii.t briilo ; 
Ami burn inclewl they did, to hi:r ilclij;lit, — 
And had tin; pretty cliunii not |>rovr'ii ri^dit I 
Tliiis Tnucl], and more, with timorouH joy, alio 

While her (.oiifessor, too, grew rosy red, — 
And eloHO to(<ctljer |ire83cd two bliHsfnl I'accH, 
As I atisolved tlic »iiiiier, with eiubrai.CH. 

And hero is winter eome again, winds blow. 
The liouHes and the streets are white with snow ; 
And in the long and ]ileasant eventide, 
Why, what is I'olly making at my side? 
Wliat fait a silk gown, beautiful and grand, 
We bought together lately in the Strand ! 
What but a dress to go to ehureh in soon, 
And wear right queetily 'neatli a honey-moon ! 
And who shall mateh her with her new straw 

Her tiny foot and little boot upon it, 
Krobroidered jiettieoat and silk gown new, 
And shawl she wears as lew fine lailies do f 
And she will keep, to cliaiin away all ill. 
The lueky sixpenee in her poeket still ; 
An<l we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather, 
To ashes, like the ehestnuts, close together ! 



I-KOM "Tint IlklDHf.kOOM Ol' (JliAU'IV.' 

LiKK a tree beside the river 

Of her life that nins from me. 
Do I lean me, iiiiirnjuring ever 

In njy love's idolatry. 
1,0, I reach out hands of f>lessing ; 

IjO, I stretch out hands of prayer ; 
And, with passionate caressing, 

four my life upon the air, 
In my ears the siren river 

Hings, and smiles u[i in my face ; 
f'.ut forever, and forever, 

Ituns from my ernlirace. 

Spring fjy spring, tfje Iininelies duly 

Clothe themselves in tender flower ; 
And for her sweet sake as tnily 

All their fruit and fragrance shower. 
Ijiit the stream, with careless, 

liuns in merry beauty by. 
And it leaves me yearning after, to droop and lone to die. 
In my ears the siren river 

Sings, and smiles up in my face ; 
lint forever, and forever, 

liiius from njy embnice. 

I stand mazed in the moonlight. 

O'er its happy face to rfrcam ; 
I ain (larched in the moonligfjt 

liy that cool anil fjrimming stream ; 
I am dying liy the river 

Of her life that runs from me. 
And it sjiarkles by me ever, 

With its cool felicity. 
In my ears the siren river 

Sings, and smiles up in my face ; 
IJut forever, and forever, 

liuns from my embrace. 

f;i:KAi.o MAssev. 

TllF, .lunc roses covered the hedges with blushes. 
And wooed with their perfume the murtnuiing 
bee ; 

And white were the cups of the odorous lilies. 
When fat<^ stole the joy of existence from me. 

With hands closely chwpeil, and withlijis prr'ssed 
One instant we stfiod, while the heart in my 
Leapt eager and wild, as the callow liirds flutter 
When the wing of th': mother sweeps over the 

One st<ir is the tyjic of the glory of Iieavcn ; 
A shell from tin; biiudi whispers still of the 
sea ; 
To a rose all the sweetness of summer is giv(!n ; 
A kiss tells what living anil loving might \x;. 
Makv I.'. dish Krrres. 


It is the miller's dauglitcr. 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would Ijc- the jewel 
Tliat trenililes at her ear ; 

For, bid in ringlets day and night, 

I 'd lou'li her neck so warm and wldte. 

And f would be the girdle 

About her dainty, dainty waist. 

And her heart would beat against mc 
In .sfirrow and in rest ; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long Uy fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom 

With her laughter or her sighs ; 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasped at night. 

AM'Kf'.IJ TllNNV!,^; 








Blest as the immortal gods is he, 
The youth who fondly sits by thee, 
And hears and sees thee all the while 
Softly speak, and sweetly smUe. 

'T was this deprived my soul of rest, 
And raised such tumults in my breast : 
For whOe I gazed, in transport tost. 
My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 

My bosom glowed; the subtle flame 
Ean iiuick through all my vital frame : 
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; 
My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 

In dewy damps my limbs were chilled ; 
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled: 
My feeble pulse forgot to play — 
I fainted, sunk, and died away. 

From thf Grt-ek of SAPPHO 


Ah ! do not wanton with those eyes. 

Lest I be sick with seeing ; 
Nor cast them down, but let them rise. 

Lest shame destroy their being. 

Ah 1 be not angry with those fires, 
For then their threats will kill me ; 

Nor look too kind on my desires. 
For then my hopes will spill me. 

Ah ! do not steep them in thy tears. 

For so wiU sorrow slay me ; 
Nor spread them as distraught with fears, — 

Mine own enough betray me. 

Ben Jonson. 

She came along the little lane, 

Where all the bushes dripped with rain. 

And robins sung and sung again. 

As if with sudden, sheer delight, 
For such a world so fresh and bri^iht, 
To swing and sing in day and night. 

But, coming down the little lane. 
She did not heed the robin's strain. 
Nor feel the sunshine after rain. 

A little face with two brown eyes, 
A little form of slender size, 
A little head not very wise ; 

A little heart to match the head, 
A foolish little heart, that bled 
At every foolish word was said. 

So, coming down the little lane, — 
I see her now, my little Jane, — 
Her foolish heart with foolish pain 

Was aching, aching in her breast, 
And all her pretty golden crest 
Was drooping as if sore opprest. 

And something, too, of anger's trace 
Was on the flushed and frowning face. 
And in the footsteps' quickened pace. 

So swift she stept, so low she leant, 
Her pretty head on thought intent. 
She scarcely saw the way she went. 

Nor saw the long, slim shadow fall 

Across the little, low stone-wall, 

As some one rose up slim and tall, — 

Rose up, and came to meet her there; 
A youth, with something in his air 
That, at a glance, revealed his share 

In all this foolish, girlish pain. 
This grief and anger and disdain. 
That rent the heart of little Jane. 

With hastier steps than hers he came, 
And in a moment called her name ; 
And in a moment, red as flame 

She blushed, and blushed, and in her eyes 
A sudden, soft, and shy surprise 
Did suddenly and softly rise. 

"What, you?" she cried : "I thought — they 

said — " 
Then stopped, and blushed a deeper red, 
And lifted up her drooping head, 

Shook back her lovely falling hair. 
And arched her neck, and strove to wear 
A nonchalant and scornful air. 

A moment thus they held apart. 
With lovers' love and lovers' art ; 
Then swift he caught her to his lieart. 

What pleasure then was born of pain. 
What sunshine after cloud and rain. 
As they forgave and kissed again ! 

'T was April then ; he talked of May, 
And planned therein a wedding-day: 
She blushed, but scarcely said him nay. 






What pleasure now is mixed with pain, 
As, looking down the little lane, 
A graybeai-d grown, I see again. 

Through twenty Aprils' rain and mist. 
The little sweetheart that I kissed, 
The little bride my folly missed ! 

NORA Perry. 


Nay ! if you will not sit upon my knee, 
Lie on that bank, and listen while I play 
A sylvan song upon these reedy pipes. 
In the full moonrise as I lay last night 
Under the alders on Peneus' banks, 
Dabbling my hoofs in the cool stream that welled 
Wine-dark with gleamy ripples round their roots, 
I made the song the while I shaped the pipes. 
'T is all of you and love, as you shall hear. 
The drooping lilies, as I sang it, heaved 
Upon their broad green leaves, and underneath. 
Swift silvery fishes, poised on quivering fins. 
Hung motionless to listen ; in the grass 
The crickets ceased to shrill their tiny bells ; 
And even the nightingale, that all the eve. 
Hid in the grove's deep green, had throbbed and 

Paused in his strain of love to list to mine. 
Bacchus is handsome, but such songs as this 
He cannot shape, and better loves the clash 
Of brazen cymbals than my reedy pipes. 
Fair as he is without, he 's coarse within, — 
Gross in his nature, loving noise and wine, 
And, tipsy, half the time goes reeling round 
Leaning on old Silenus' shoulders fat. 
But I have scores of songs that no one knows. 
Not even Apollo, no, nor Mercury, — 
Theirstrings can never sing like my sweet pipes, — 
Some, that will make fierce tigers rub their fur 
Against the oak tninks for delight, or stretch 
Their plump sides for my pillow on the sward. 
Some, that will make the satyrs' clattering hoofs 
Leap when they hear, and from their noonday 

Start up to stamp a wild and frolic dance 
In the green shadows. Ay ! and better songs, 
Made for the delicate nice ears of nymphs, 
Which while I sing my pipes shall imitate 
The droning bass of honey-seeking bees. 
The tinkling tenor of clear pebbly streams. 
The breezy alto of the alder's sighs. 
And all the airy sounds that lull the grove 
When noon falls fast asleep among the hills. 
Nor only these, — for I can pipe to you 
Songs that will make the slippery vipers pause. 
And stay the stags to gaze with their great eyes ; 

Such songs — and you shall hear them if you 

will — 
That Bacchus' self would give his hide to hear. 
If you '11 but love me every day, I '11 bring 
The coyest flowers, such as you never saw. 
To deck you with. I know their secret nooks, — 
They cannot hide themselves away from Pan. 
And you shall have rare garlands ; ami your bed 
Of fragrant mosses shall be sprinkled o'er 
With violets like your eyes, — just for a kiss. 
Love me, and you shall do whate'er you like, 
And shall be tended wheresoe'er you go, 
And not a beast .shall hurt you, — not a toad 
But at your bidding give his jewel up. 
The speckled shining snakes shall never .sting. 
But twist like bracelets round your rosy arms, 
And keep your bosom cool in the hot noon. 
You shall have berries ripe of every kind. 
And luscious peaches, and wild nectarines. 
And sun-flecked ajiricots, and honeyed dates. 
And wine from bee-stuug grapes, drunk with the 

(Such wine as Bacchus never tasted yet). 
And not a ]ioisonous plant shall have the power 
To tetter your white flesh, if you '11 love Pan. 
And then I '11 tell you tales that no one knows ; 
Of what the pines talk in the summer nights. 
When far above you hear them murmuring. 
As they sway whispering to the lifting breeze ; 
And what the storm shrieksto the struggling oaks 
As it flies through them hurrying to the sea 
From mountain crags and c.lifls. Or, when 

you 're sad, 
I '11 tell you tales that solemn C)'presses 
Have whispered to me. There 's not anything 
Hid in the woods and dales and dark ravines. 
Shadowed in dripping caves, or by the shore. 
Slipping from sight, but I can tell to yon. 
Plump, dull-eared Bacchus, thinking of himself. 
Never can catch a syllable of this ; 
But with my shaggj' ear against the grass 
1 hear the secrets hidden underground. 
And know how in the inner forge of Earth, 
The ])ulse-like hammers of creation beat. 
Old Pan is ugly, rough, and rude to see, 
But no one knows such secrets as old Pan. 



Come, rest in this bosom, mj' own stricken deer. 
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home 

is still here ; 
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, 
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last 

4zt— - 

e Last. 





Oh ! wliut was lovo miulu lor, if 't is not the sftino 
Thi-ough joy and through torment, througli glory 

uiul shniuo I 
I know not, 1 iisk not, it'gnilt's in that lieart, 
I but know that I Uivo theo, whatcvi'r thou art. 

Tliou liast lalK'ii mo tliv Angol in moments of 

Aiul thy Angel 1 '11 be, mill the horrors of this, 
'I'lirougli the fnrnaee, unshrinking, thy steps to 

And shield thee, anil save thee, — or jierish there 

Thomas Mooki; 


From the Desert I <'ome to thee, 

On a stallion shod with tire ; 
.\nd the winds are left Iwhind 

In the sjieed of my desiiv. 
Under thy window I stand. 

And the midnight heai-s my ery : 
1 love thee, 1 love but thee ! 
With a love that shall not dio 
Till the sun ffrows cold, 
Jnd the stars are old, 
And llif h-aixs of the Judijmcnt 
Book unfold! 

Look from thy window, and soe 

My passion and n\y pain ! 
I lie on the sands below, 

.\nd 1 faint in thy disdain. 
Let the night-winds toueh tliy brow 
With the heat of my burning sigh. 
Anil nu'lt theo to hear the vow 
Of a lovo that slinll not dio 
'Till the sun <;roics cold, 
.tnd the stars are old. 
And the Icatvs of the Judijmcnt 
Book unfold ! 

My stejis are nightly driven, 
I5y the fever in my breast, 
To hear from thy laltiee breathed 

The wonl that shall give me ivst. 
Open the door of thy heart. 

And open thy ehamlier door. 
And my kisses sliall teaeli thy lips 
The lovo that shall fade no more 
TUX the sun yroiiw cold, 
And the stars are old. 
And the leaves o/th$ Judgment 
Book unfold/ 

BAVARD Taylor. 


" WiiKN your beauty appears. 

In its graees and ail's, 
All bright as an angel now droi>t from the skies. 

At distaneo 1 gaze, and am awed by my fears. 
So strangely you dazzle my eyes ! 

" Hut when without art 
Your kinil thoughts yon inijiart. 
When your love runs in blushes through every 
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants 
at your heart. 
Then I know that you 're \von\an again." 

" There 's a passion and pride 

In our se.v," she roplied ; 
" And thus (might 1 gratify both) 1 would do, — 

Still an angel appear to eaeh lover beside, 
But still bo a womiui for you." 

Thomas I'ak.selu 


Ai "itAi Alil.i. — CAHU.1.US. 

Kiss mo softly and speak to mo low, — 

Maliee has ever a vigihuit ear ; 

What if Maliee were lurking near ? 
Kiss me, deiu- ! 
Kiss mo softJy and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low, — 
Knvy too has a watehful ear : 
What if Envy should ehanee to hear? 
Kiss me, dear ! 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low : 
Trust me, darling, the time is near 
When level's may love with never a fear, — 
Kiss me, dear I 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

John Oodi-ruv Saxe. 


How delieious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's Wginning, 
When two mutual hearts aro sighing 
For the knot there 's no untying. 

Yet ivmemlHM', midst your wooing. 
Love has bliss, but love has ruing ; 
Other smiles may make you liekle. 
Teal's for other charms mav trickle. 


" How delicious is the winning 
0/ a kiss at lore's beginnings 
When two tnutuai hearts are sighing 
For the knot there's no untying.'"' 





Love he comes, and Love he tarries, 
Just as fate or fancy carries, — 
Longest stays when sorest chidden. 
Laughs and flies when pressed and bidden. 

Bind the sea to slumber stilly. 
Bind its odor to the lily. 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, — 
Then bind Love to last forever ! 

Love 's a fire that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 

Love's wing moults when caged and captured, — 

Only free he soars enraptured. 

Can you keep the bee from ranging, 
Or the ring-dove's neck from changing ? 
No ! nor fettered Love from dying 
In the knot there 's no untying. 

THOMAS Campbell. 


" I SAW him kiss your cheek ! " — "'T is true." 
"0 Modesty!" — "'T was strictly kept : 

He thought me asleep ; at least, I knew 
He thought 1 thought he thought I slept." 




1. Amoxg thy fancies tell me this : 
What is the thing we call a kiss ? — 

2. I shall resolve ye what it is : 

It is a creature born and bred 

Between the lips all cherry red. 

By love and warm desires i'eil ; 

Clior. And makes more soft the bridal bed. 

It is an active flame, that flies 
First to the babies of the eyes, 
And charms them there with lullabies ; 
Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries. 

Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear. 
It frisks and flies, — now here, now there ; 
'T is now far off, and then 't is near ; 
Chor. And here, and there, and everpvhere. 

1. Has it a speaking virtue ? — 2. Yes. 
1. How speaks it, say ? — 2. Do you but this : 
Part your joined lips, — then speaks your 
kiss ; 
Chor. And this love's sweetest language is. 

1. Has it a body? — 2. Ay, and wings. 
With a thousand rare encolorings ; 
And as it Hies it gently sings ; 
Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings. 
Robert herrk 


So you call that a kiss, when, in token of parting. 
Your lips touched my own with such tremu- 
lous fear ; 
When haste took for wages the most of the 
And whispered that danger and peril were near. 

So you call that a kiss ! Let me paint for a 
The home of my fancy, my castle of rest, 
Wliere — all the bright dreams of my life stored 
within it — 
I linger for hours with the frieuds I love best. 

The lamps shed a light like the soft glow of 
The air breathes warm odors of spice an I of 
Not a sound breaks the hush, and the spirit, in 
Folds round it the mantle of heavenly calm. 

You are there in the stillness and some one 
beside you. 
We '11 say, for the dream's sake, the one you 
love best. 
She is kneeling beside you, your arms are arouml 
Her head on your shoulder is pillowed in rest. 

You smooth the soft tresses away from her fore- 
Her breath, sweet as summer, floats over your 
You tighten your clasp as you murmur, "My 
I am weai-y and faint for the kisses I seek." 

She tui-ns her face toward you, her large eyes up- 
Dilated, and dark, vnXli a passionate fire : 
And her rich, dewy lips, in their innocent fond- 
Fill up in fidl measure your cup of desire. 

moment ecstatic — renewed and repeated ! 

Alas ! weary world, with your burden of care. 
Your raptures are coldness, your kisses are fail- 
When matched with the ones of my castle 
in air. 

Mary Louise Ritter. 







Upon anc stormy Suiuiay, 

Coming iitloon llic lane, 
Were a score of lionnio lassies — 

And the sweetest 1 maintain 

Was Caddie, 

That I took unncath my plaidie, 

To shield her from the rain. 

She said that the daisies blushed 
For the kiss that 1 had ta'en ; 

1 wad na hao thought the lassie 

Wad sae of a kiss eomplain: 

" Now, laddie! 

1 winna stay umler your plaidie, 
If I gang liame in the rain ! " 

But, on an after Sunday, 
When cloud there was not ane, 

This selfsame winsome lassie 

(Wo clianccd to meet in the lane) 
Said, " Laddie, 

Why dinna yc wear your plaidie ? 
Wha kens but it may rain ?" 




Some say that kissing 's a sin ; 

But 1 think it 's none ava. 
For kissing has wonn'd in this warld 

Since ever that there was twa. 

0, if it wasna lawfu' 

Lawyers wadna allow it ; 
If it wasna holy. 

Ministers wadna do it. 

If it wasna modest. 

Maidens wadna tak' it ; 
If it wasna plenty, 

Puir folk wadna get it. 


TiiF. fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with tlic ocean : 
The winds of heaven mix forever. 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle : — 

Why not I with thine ? 

See ! the mountains kiss high heaven. 
And the waves clasp one another ; 

No sister flower would be forgiven 
If it disdained its brother ; 

And the sunlight clasps the earth. 
And the moonbeams kiss the sea : 

What are all these kissings worth. 
If thou kiss not mo ? 



Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' through the rye. 
Gin a body kiss a body. 

Need a body cry ? 
Every lassie has her laddie, — 

Ne'er a ane hae 1 ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 
Anutnri the train there is a swain 

I dcarbj lo'e. miiscV ; 
But u-liaur his ?iamc, or what his name, 
I dinna can to tell. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' frae the \ovra, 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown ? 
Every lassie has her laddie, — 

Ne'er a ane hae 1 ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 
Among the train there is a sirain 

I dearly lo'e myseV ; 
But u-haiir his hame. or what his name, 
I dinnii care to tell. 

Adapted by HirRNS. 


As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 
Wit h a pitchcrof milk, from the fair of Coleraine, 

When she saw me she stumbled, the ]iitclier it 
And all the sweet buttermilk watered the jilain. 

" 0, what sh.ill 1 do now ? — 't was lookingat you 
now ! 

Sure, sure, such a pitcher I '11 ne'er meet ;xgain! 
'T was the pride of my dairy: Barney M'Clcary! 

You 're sent as a plague to the girlsof Coleraine. " 

1 sat down beside her, and gently did chide her. 
That such a misfortune should give her such pain. 

A kiss then 1 gave her ; and ere I diil leave her, 
She vowed for such pleasureshe'd bre.^k it again 







"T was hay-making season — I can't tell the rea- 
son — 

Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain; 
For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster 

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 




The Moth's kiss, first ! 

Kiss me as if you made believe 

You were not sure, this eve, 

How my face, your flower, had pursed 

Its petals up ; so, here ami there 

You brush it, till I grow aware 

Who wants me, and wide open burst. 

The Bee's kiss, now ! 
Kiss me as if you entered gay 
My heart at some noonday, 
A bud that dared not disallow 
The claim, so all is rendered up, 
And passively its shattered cup 
Over your head to sleep I bow. 




" ' Music ! ' they shouted, echoing my demand, 
And answered with a beckon of his hand 
The gracious host, whereat a maiden, fair 
As the last star that leaves the morning air, 
Came down the leafy paths. Her veil revealed 
The beauty of her face, which, half concealed 
Behind its thin blue folds, showed like the moon 
Behind a cloud that will forsake it soon. 
Her hair was braided darkness, but the glance 
Of lightning eyes shot from her countenance, 
And showed her neck, that like an ivory tower 
Rose o'er the twin domes of her marble breast. 
Were all the beauty of this age compressed 
Into one form, she would transcend its power. 
Her step was lighter than the young gazelle's 
And as she walked, her anklet's golden bells 
Tiukled with pleasure, but were quickly mute 
With jealousy, as from a case she drew 
With snowy hands the pieces of her lute. 
And took her seat before me. As it grew 
To perfect shape, her lovely arms she bent 
Around the neck of the sweet instrument. 
Till from her soft caresses it awoke 
To consciousness, and thus its rapture spoke: 
' I was a tree within an Indian vale, 
When first I heard the love-sick nightingale 
Declare his passion ; every leaf was stirred 

With the melodious sorrow of the bird, 
And when he ceased, the song remained with me. 
Men came anon, and felled the harmless tree, 
But from the memory of the songs I heard, 
The spoiler saved me from the destiny 
Whereby my brethren perished. O'er the sea 
I came, and from its loud, tumultuous moan 
I caught a soft and solemn undertone ; 
And when 1 grew beneath the maker's hand 
To what thou seest, he sang (the while he planned) 
The mirthful measures of a careless heart, 
And of my soul his songs became a part. 
Now they have laid my head upon a breast 
Whiter than marble, I am wholly blest. 
The fair hands smite me, and my strings com- 
With such melodious cries, they smite again, 
Until, with passion and with sorrow swayed. 
My toi-ment moves the bosom of the maid, 
Wlio hears it speak her own. I am the voice 
Whereby the lovers languish or rejoice ; 
And they caress me, knowing that my strain 
Alone can speak the language of their pain.' 

" Here ceased the fingera of the maid to stray 
Over the strings ; the sweet song died away 
In mellow, drowsy murmurs, and the lute 
Leaned on her fairest bosom, and was mute. 
Better than wine that music was to mo ; 
Not the lute only felt her hands, but she 
Played on my heart-strings, till the sounds be- 
Incarnate in the pulses of my frame. 
Speech left my tongue, and in my tears alone 
Found utterance. With stretched arms I im- 
Continuance, whereat her fingers poured 
A tenderer music, answering the tone 
Her parted lips released, the while her throat 
Throbbed, as a heavenly bird were fluttering 

And gave her voice the wonder of his note. 
'His brow,' she sang, 'is white beneath his 

hair ; 
The fertile beard is soft upon his chin. 
Shading the mouth that nestles warm within. 
As a rose nestles in its leaves ; I see 
His eyes, but cannot tell what hue they be. 
For the sharp eyelash, like a saber, speaks 
The martial law of Passion ; in bis cheeks 
The quick blood mounts, and then as quickly 

Leaving a tint like marble when a rose 
Is held beside it ; — bid him veil his eyes. 
Lest all my soul should unto mine arise. 
And he behold it I ' As she sang, her glance 
Dwelt on my face ; her beauty, like a lance, 
Transfixed my heart. I melted into sighs, 






Slain by tlie arrows of lier lioauteous eyes. 

' Why is her bosom matle,' I cried, 'a snare ? 

Wliy does a single ringlet of her hair 

Hold my heart captive .' ' ' Would you know ? ' 

she said ; 
' It is that you are mad with love, and chains 
Were made for madmen.' Then she raised her 

With answering love, that led to other strains. 
Until the lute, which shared with her the smart, 
Kocked as in storm upon her beating heart. 
Thus to its wires she made impassioned cries : 
' I swear it by the brightness of his eyes ; 
I swear it by the darkness of his hair ; 
By the warm bloom his limbs and bosom wear ; 
liy the fresh pearls his rosy lips enclose ; 
By the calm majesty of his repose ; 
By smiles I coveted, and frowns 1 feared. 
And by the shooting myrtles of his beard, — 
I swear it, that from him the morning drew 
Its freshness, and the moon her silvery hue. 
The sun his brightness, and the stars their fire. 
And musk and camphor all llieir odorous breath : 
And if he answer not my love's desire. 
Day will be night to me, and Life be Death ! ' " 
HAYAKD Taylor. 



Husii ! the night is calm and quiet 
And the crescent moon hangs low ; 

Silence deep and wide bath power, 
And the south wind wanders slow — 

Through a casement where the curtain 
Faintly rustles to and fro. 

Like a spirit .softly sighing 

l'"lits it all the chamber round, 
"Where the dim lamp failing, dving, 

.lust dispels tbr ,i;ln,,lil ] il , .n.iind" ; 
Ibin;_'s al.ur Iwo iLippv, 
l!y love's pciii'rt iirdHiisi' rniwued. 

Even through the gates of slumber 
To the shadowy land of rest 

He still clasps his long-sought treasure 
Closely, closely to his breast. 

With the ardor of a passion 
Long denied and long repressed. 

With his lips still warm with kisses 
Close and clinging as his own, 

Sighing still iu happy dreaming 

For the joy his heart hath known — 

Sweetly, iieacefully, he sluniluMs, 
In the arms about him thrown. 

And she gazes at him, thinking — 
Not of all her dreary years — 

Only of this isle of glory, 

Reached with many doubts and fears, 
Over love's frail bridge of rainbows 

Fading in a mist of tears. 

Then she nestles still more closely 
To the heart so kind and dear. 

Whispering, " Love me, love me, darling 
All ujy hope and rest is hero, 

And without thee, earth is nothing 
But a desert cold and drear. 

" 0, that every night my slumbers 

Might be so supremely blest, 
Bounded by thy dear embraces. 

Kissed from jiassiou into rest ; 
1 would ask no better heaven 

Sheltered thus and thus caressed." 

Fan them gently, odorous south wind. 
And begone on pinions fleet ! 

Nothing in thy nightly journey 
Shall thy wandering vision greet, 

Half as perfect in fulfillment, 
Satisfying and complete. 

Mary Louise Ritteb 


Here, Charmian, take my bracelets ; 

They bar with a purple stain 
My arms ; turn over my pillows, — 

They are hot where I have lain : 
Open the lattice wider, 

A gauze o'er my bosom throw, 
And let me inhale the odors 

That over the garden blow. 

I dreamed I was with my Antony 

And in his arms I lay ; 
Ah me ! the vision has vanished, — 

The music has died away. 
The flame and the perfume have perished — 

As this spiced aromatic pastille 
That wound the blue smoke of its odor. 

Is now but an ashy hill. 

Scatter upon me rose-leaves. 

They cool me after my sleep. 
And with sandal odors fan me 

Till into my veins they creep ; 
Rcacli down the lute, and jilay mo 

A nii'lancboly tune. 
To vliyuie witli the dream that has vanished, 

And tile slumbering afternoon. 

There, drowsing iu golden sunlight, 
Loiters the slow, smooth Nile, 



— a 


Through slender [lapyri, that cover 

The ivary crocodile. 
The lotus lolls on the water, 

And opens its heart of gold, 
And over its broad leaf pavement 

Never a ripple is rolled. 

The twilight breeze is too lazy 

Those feathery palms to wave. 
And yon little cloud is as motionless 

As a stone above a grave. 

Ah me ! this lifeless nature 

Oppresses my heart and brain ! 
0, for a storm and thunder. 

For lightning and wild fierce rain ! 
Fling down that lute — I hate it ! 

Take rather his buckler and sword, 
And crash them and clash them together 

Till this sleeping world is stirred. 

Hark ! to my Indian beauty — 

My cockatoo, creamy white, 
Witli roses under his feathers — 

That flashes across the light. 
Look ! listen ! as backward and forward 

To his hoop of gold he clings. 
How he trembles, with crest uplifted, 

And shrieks as he madly swings ! 

cockatoo, shriek for Antony ! 

Cry, " Come, my love, come home ! " 
Shriek, " Antony ! Antony ! Antony ! " 

Till he hears you even in Rome. 

There — leave me, and take from my chamber 

That stupid little gazelle. 
With its bright black eyes so meaningless. 

And its silly tinkling bell ! 
Take him — my nei-ves he vexes — 

The thing without blood or brain. 
Or, by the body of I sis, 

I '11 snap his neck in twain ! 

Leave me to gaze at the landscape 

Mistily stretching away. 
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors 

O'er the mountains quivering play 
Till the fiercer splendor of sunset 

Pours from the west its fire. 
And melted, as in a crucible. 

Their earthly forms expire ; 

And the bald blear skull of the desert 
With glowing mountains is crowned. 

That, burning like molten jewels. 
Circle its temples round. 

I will lie and dream of the past time, 

.Flous of thought away, 
And through the jungle of memory 

Loosen my fancy to play ; 
When, a smooth and velvety tiger, 

Ribbed with yellow and black, 
Suiiple and cushion -footed, 

I wandered where never the track 
Of a liuman creature had rustled 

The silence of mighty woods. 
And, fierce in a tjTannous freedom, 

I knew but the law of my moods. 
The elephant, trumpeting, started 

When he heard my footstep near. 
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly 

In a yellow cloud of fear. 
I sucked in the noontide splendor 

Quivering along the glade. 
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming, 

Basked in the tamarisk shade. 
Till I heard my wild mate roaring. 

As tlie shadows of night came on 
To brood in tlie trees' thick branches. 

And the shadow of sleep was gone ; 
Then I roused and roared in answer. 

And unsheathed from my cushioned feet 
My curving claws, and stretched me 

And wandered my mate to greet. 
We toyiKl in the amber moonlight, 

Upon the wann flat sand. 
And struck at each other our ma,ssive anns — 

How powerful he was and grand ! 
His yellow eyes flashed fiercely 

As he crouched and gazed at me, 
And his quivering tail, like a serpent. 

Twitched curving nervously ; 
Then like a storm he seized me. 

With a wild, triumphant cry. 
And we met as two clouds in heaven 

WTien the thunders before them fly ; 
We grappled and struggled together. 

For his love, like his rage, was rude ; 
And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck 

At times, in our play, drew blood. 
Often another suitor — 

For 1 was flexile and fair — 
Fought for me in the moonlight. 

While I lay crouching there, 
Till his blood was drained by the desert ; 

And, ruffled with triumph and power. 
He licked me and lay beside me 

To breathe him a vast half-hour ; 
Then down to the fountain we loitered. 

Where the antelopes came to drink, — 
Like a bolt we sprang upon them, 

Ere they had time to shrink. 
AVe drank their blood and cruslied them. 

And tore them limb from limb, 






And the hungriest lion doubted 
Ere he disjiuted with him. 

That was a life to live for ! 

Not this weak human life, 
With its frivolous, bloodless passions, 

Its poor and petty strife ! 
Come to my arms, my hero. 

The shadows of twilight grow, 
And the tiger's ancient fierceness 

In my veins begins to flow. 
Come not cringing to sue me ! 

Take me with triumph and power. 
As a warrior storms a fortress ! 

I will not shrink or cower. 
Come as you came in the desert, 

Ere we were women and men. 
When the tiger passions were in us. 

And love as you loved me then ! 

William w. STOR^■ 


Though, when other maids stand by, 
I may deign thee no reply, 
Turn not then away, and sigh, — 

Smile, and never heed me ! 
If our love, indeed, be such 
xVs must thrill at every touch, 
Why should others learn as much ? — 

Smile, and never heed me ! 

Even if, with maiden pride, 
I should bid thee ijuit my side. 
Take this lesson for thy guide, — 

Smile, and never heed me ! 
But when stars and twilight meet. 
And the dew is falling sweet. 
And thou hear'st my coming feet, — 

Then thou — then — mayst heed me ! 



I ARISE from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night. 
When the winds are breathing low. 

And the stars are shining bright. 
I arise from dreams of thee. 

And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how ? — 

To thy chamber-window, sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream, — 

The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 

The nightingale's complaint. 

It dies upon her heart. 
As 1 must die on thine, 

0, beloved as thou art ! 

0, lift me from the grass ! 

I die, I faint, I faU ! 
Let thy love in kisses I'ain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 

My heart beats loud and fast : 
Oh ! press it close to thine again. 

Where it will break at last I 



Go from me. Yet I feel that I ehall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore, 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before. 
Without the sense of that which I forebore, . . ■ 
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
AVith pulses that beat double. What I do 
And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
God for myself, he hears that name of thine, 
And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 

The face of all the world is chauged, I think. 
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul 
.Move still, still, beside me, as they stole 
Betwi.xt me and the dreadful outer brink 
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink. 
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole 
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole 
God gave for baptism I am fain to drink. 
And praise its sweetness. Sweet, with thee anear. 
The names of country, heaven, are changed away 
For where thou art or shall be, there or here ; 
And this, this lute and song, loved yesterday 
(The singing angels know) are only dear. 
Because thy name moves right in what they say. 

Indeed, this very love which is my boast, 
And which, when rising up from breast to brow. 
Doth crowii me with a ruby large enow 
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost. 
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost, 
I should not love withal, unless that thou 
Hadst set me an example, shown me how. 
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were 




141 r 

And love called love. And thus, 1 cannot 

Of love even, as a good thing of my own. 
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and 

And placed it by thee on a golden throne, — 
And that I love yO soul, we must be meek !) 
Is by tliee only, whom I love alone. 

If thou must love me, let it be for naught 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say, 
' ' I love her for her smile, her look, her way 
Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day." 
For these things in themselves. Beloved, may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and love so 

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, — 
A creature might forget to weep, who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 

1 NEVER gave a lock of hair away 

To a man. Dearest, e.xcept this to thee,- 

Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully 

I ring out to the full brown lengt-h and say, 

" Take it." My day of youth went yesterday; 

My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee. 

Nor plant I It from rose or m)Ttle tree. 

As girls do, any more. It only may 

Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of 

Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside 
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral- 
Would take this first, but Love is justified, — 
Take it thou, finding pure, from all those years, 
The kiss my mother left here when she died. 

The soul's Riulto hath its merchandise ; 
I barter curl for curl upon that mart. 
And from my poet's forehead to my heart 
Receive this lock which outweighs argosies, — 
As purely black, as erst, to Pindar's eyes, 
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart 
The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart. 
Thy bay-crown's shade. Beloved, I surmise, 
Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black ! 
Thus, mth a fillet of smooth-kissing breath, 
1 tie the shadow safe from gliding back. 
And lay the gift where nothing hindereth. 
Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack 
No natural heat till mine grows cold in death. 

Say over again, and yet once over again, 
That thou dost love me. Though the word re- 
Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost 

treat it. 
Remember, never to the hill or plain. 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain, 
Comes the fresh spring in all her green completed. 
Beloved, 1, amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain 
Cry ; " Speak once more — thou lovest ! " Who 

can fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll, — 
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the 

year ? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me, — toll 
The silver iterance ! — only minding, dear, 
To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 

Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead, 
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine ? 
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine. 
Because of grave-damps falling round my head ? 
I marveled, my Beloved, when I read 
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine — 
But ... so much to thee ? Can 1 pour thy wine 
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead 
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. 
Then, love me. Love ! look on me . . . breathe on 

me ! 
As brighter ladies do not count it strange, 
For love, to give up acres and degree, 
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange 
My near sweetviewof Heaven, for earth with thee I 

My letters ! all dead paper, mute and white ! — 
And yet they seem alive and quivering 
Against my tremulous handswhichloose thestring 
And let them drop down on my knee to-night. 
This said, he wished to have me in his sight 
Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in spring 
To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing. 
Yet 1 wept for it ! this . . . the paper 's light . . . 
Said, Dear, I love thee ; and I sank and quailed 
As if God's future thundered on my past. 
This said, / am thine, — and so its ink has jialed 
With lying at my heart that beat too fast. 
And this ... Love, thy words have ill availed. 
If what this said, I dared repeat at last ! 

I THINK of thee ! my thoughts do twine and bud 

About thee, as wild vines about a tree. 

Put out broad leaves, and soon there's naught to see 

Except the straggling green which hides the wood. 

Yet, my palm-tree, be it understood 

I will not have my thoughts instead of thee 






Who art dearer, better ! Rather instantly 
Renew thy presence. As a strong tree shouUI, 
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare, 
A nd let these bands of greenery which insphere thee 
Droj) heavily down, burst, shattered, every- 
where ! 
Dccause, in this deep joy to see and hear thee 
And breathe within thy shadow a new ail', 
1 do not think of thee, — 1 am too near thee. 

TiiK first time that the sun rose on thine oath 
To love me, 1 looked forward to the moon 
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon 
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth. 
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly 

loathe ; 
And, looking on myself, 1 seemed not one 
For such man's love ! — more like an out of tune 
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth 
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste 
Is laid down at the first iU-sounding note. 
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed 
A wrong on thcc. For perfect strains may float 
Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced, — 
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat. 

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; 
And, ever since, it grew more clean and white. 
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its " list ! " 
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight 
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height 
The first.and soughttheforehead,and half missed. 
Half falling on the hair. 0, beyond meed ! 
That was the chrism of love, which love's own 

AVith sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 
The third upon my lips was folded down 
.In jierfcct, purple state ; since when, indeed, 
1 have been proud, and said, ' ' My love, my own ! " 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways. 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 

I love thee to the level of every day's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 

1 love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 

1 love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath. 

Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Barrett, browning. 


I c.iRE not, though it be 

By the preciser sort thought popery ; 

We poets can a license show 

For everything we do. 
Hear, then, my little saint ! I '11 pray to thee. 

If now thy happy mind. 

Amidst its various joys, can leisure find 

To attend to anything so low 

As what I say or do. 
Regard, aud be — what thou wast ever — kind. 

Let not the blest above 

Engross thee (juite, but sometimes hither rove : 

Fain would I thy sweet image see, 

And sit and talk with thee ; 
Nor is it curiosity, but love. 

Ah ! what delight 't would be, 
Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with 
me ! 

How should I thy sweet commune prize. 

And other joys despise ] 
Come, then ! I ne'er was yet denied by thee. 

I would not long detain 

Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain ; 

Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know 

Of thy escape below : 
Before thou 'rt missed, thou .shouldst return again. 

Sure, heaven must needs thy love. 
As well as other qualities, improve : 

Come, then ! and recreate my sight 

With rays of thy pure light ; 
'T will cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. 

But if Fate 's so severe 

As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere 

(And by thy absence I shall know 

Whether thy state be so). 
Live happy, and be mindful of me there. 


That I love thee, charming maid, I a thousand 
times have said. 
And a thousand times more I have sworn it, 
But 't is easy to be seen in the coldness of your 
That you doubt my afiection — or scorn it. 
Ah me ! 

Not a single grain of sense is in the whole of 
these pretenses 
For rejecting your lover's petitions ; 






Had I windows in my bosom, 0, liow gladly, I 'd 
expose 'em ! 
To undo your fantastic suspicions. 

Ah me ! 

You repeat I 've known you long, and you hint 
I do you wrong, 
In beginning so late to pursue ye ; 
But 't is folly to look glum because people did 
not come 
Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye. 

Ah me ! 

In a grapery one walks without looking at the 
While the bunches are green that they 're bear- 
ing : 
All the pretty little leaves that are dangling at the 
Scarce attract e'en a moment of staring. 

Ah mo ! 

But when time has swelled the grapes to a richer 
style of shapes, 
And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes, 
Then to cheer us and to gladden, to enchant us 
and to madden. 
Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes. 

Ah me ! 

0, 't is then that mortals pant while they gaze on 
Bacchus' plant, — 
0, 't is then, — will my simile .serve ye ? 
Should a damsel fair repine, though neglected like 
a vine ? 
Both erelong shall turn lu^ads topsy-turvy. 
Ah me ! 



The brilliant black eye 

May in triumph let fly 
All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; 

But the soft eye of blue. 

Though it scatter wounds too, 
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em ! 
Dear Fanny ! 

The black eye may say, 

"Come and worship my ray ; 
By adoring, perhaps you may move me ! " 

But the blue eye, half hid. 

Says, from under its lid, 
" I love, and am yours, if you love me ! " 
Dear Faimy ! 

Then tell me, why, 
In that lovely blue eye. 
Not a charm of its tint I discover ; 
Or why should you wear 
The only blue p!Ur 
That ever said " No" to a lover ? 
Dear Fanny ! 

Thomas Mo 


Do you what the birds say ? The sparrow, 

the dove. 
The linnet, and thrush say, " I love, and 1 love 1" 
In the winter they 're silent, the wind is so strong ; 
What it says I don't know, but it sings a louil 

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm 

And singing and loving, — all come back together. 
But the lark is so briml'ul of gladness and love. 
The green fielils below him, the blue sky above. 
That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings ho, 
" I love my Love, and my Love loves me." 

SAMUEL Coleridge. 


Tvrxc. her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied her raven ringlets in. 
But not alone in the silken .snare 
Did she catch her lovely (loafing hair. 
For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied a young man's heart within. 

They were strolling together u]) the hill. 

Where the wind came blowing merry and chill ; 

And it blew the curls a frolicsome race. 

All over the happy peach-colored face. 

Till scolding and laughing, she tied them in. 

Under her beautiful, dimpled chin. 

Ami it blew a color, bright as the bloom 
Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume. 
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
That ever imprisoned a romping curl. 
Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin. 
Tied a young man's heart within. 

Steeper and steeper grew the hill. 
Madder, merrier, chiller still. 
The western wind blew down, and played 
The wildest tricks with the little maid. 
As, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
She tied a young man's heart within. 







wostcrn wind, do you think it wns lair 

To play snc-li tiiolvs witli luT lloatiiii; luiii ' 

To i;luilly, j;U'i'l'ully, do your bost 

To blow htn' nj;!iinst tho vounj; nuiii's brciist, 

\VluMt> ho lias'gladly folci.-d h'or in. 

And kissod her mouth and dinii'lod ohiu ? 

EUory Vnno, you Ulth' thoUf;lit, 
An hour ago, wlu'U you besought 
This country hiss to walk with you, 
Afti'V the sun had driod tho dow. 
What torribhi danger you M be in. 
As sho tied hor bonnet under her ehiu. 


Ll'CY is a goldeu girl ; 

But a man, a man, shouhi woo her ! 
Thoy who seek her shrink alvick, 

Whon tliey shouM, likf storms, jnu'suo her. 

All hor smiles are hid in light ; 

All her hiiir is lost in s]4endor ; 
But she hath the eyes of Nifjlit 

And a hesu't that 's over-tender. 

Yet the foolish suitors fly 

(Is 't oxoess of dread or duty !) 
Fixim the starlight of her eye, 

Leaving to negleet her beauty ! 

Men by fifty seasons taught 

Leave her to a young beginner. 
Who, without a second thought, 

Whispers, woos, and straight must win her. 

Luey is a golden girl ! 

Toixst her in a goWot brimniing I 
May the man that wins her wear 

On his heart the Kose of Women ! 



Is the merry month of May, 
In a morn by break of day. 
With a tniop of damsels playing 
Forth 1 ivde, forsooth, a-numng. 
When anon by a woodside. 
Where as May was in his pride, 
1 espii-d, all Mono, 
PhiUida and Corydon. 

Much ado there was, Gml wot ! 
He would love and she would not : 

She said, " Never- man was true " : 
He says, " None was to you." 
lie said he had loved hor long : 
She says, " l.ove should have no WTOUg,' 

tVirydon he would kiss her then. 
She says, " Maids must kiss no men 
Till they do for good ami all." 
Then sho nnule the shepherd call 
All the heavens to witness, truth 
Never loved a truer youth. 

Thus, with many a pRHty oath, 
Yea and nay, and faith and troth, — 
Such as silly shephenls use 
When they will not lovo abuse, — 
Love, which had been long deluded, 
Was with kisses sweet concluded ; 
And riiillida, with garlands gay, 
Wivj made tho lady of the May, 


M.\K0ARITA tii-st possiessed. 
If 1 reniember well, my breast, 

Margjirita fii-st of all ; 
But when awhile tho wanton maid 
With my i-estless heart had played, 

Martha took tlie Hying ball. 

Martha soon did it resign 
To tho beauteous Catharine. 

Beauteous Catharine gave place 
(Though loath and angry she to purt 
With the possession of my heart) 

To Klisa's conquering face. 

Eliza till this hour might reign, 
Had she not evil counsels ta'en ; 

Fundamental laws she broke. 
And still new favorites she chose. 
Till up in arms my passions ix>se. 

And cast away her yoke. 

Mary then, and gentle Anne, 
Both to irign at once begjin ; 

Alternately they swayed ; 
And sometinu'S Mary was the fair, 
And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, 

And sometimes both 1 obeyed. 

Another Mai-y then arose. 
And did rigorous laws impose ; 

A mighty t\Tant she ! 
Long, alas ! should 1 have l>ecn 
Under that iron-sceptered queen. 

Had not Kebccca set me fn>e. 




When fair Rebecca set me free, 

"1' was then a ;^o|iieii time with me : 

iiiit Hoon tiioHC [ileasureH lle<l ; 
Kor tlie jjraciou.s jirinccss diwl 
In lier youth and beauty'tt jiride, 

Ajid .Indith n^igncd in her stead. 

One iii'iritli, three days, and ijalf an hour, 
.Indith held the sovereign jKnver : 

Wondrous heautilul her lace I 
I'.ut so weak and small lier wit, 
That she to govern was unfit, 

And so Susanna took her jilace. 

Hut when Isatella cime, 
Armed with a resistless Hume, 

And the artillery of her eye. 
Whilst she proudly marched about, 
Greater concjuests to find out. 

She beat out Susan, by the by. 

liut in her place I then obeyed 
IJlack-eyed Bess, her viceroy-maid. 

To whom ensued a vacancy : 
Thousand worse passions then possessed 
The interregnum of my breast ; 

I'less me from such an anarchy ! 

Gentle Henrietta then, 

And a thinl Mary began ; 

Then .loan and .Jane, and AndrL'i ; 
And then a pretty Thomasine, 
And then another Catharine, 

And then a long d cceltiru. 

liut I will briefer with them be, 
Sini:e few of them were long with me. 

An higher and a nobler strain 
My present emperess does claim, 
Heleonora, first of the name ; 

Whom God giant long to reign ! 



GisKK.s grow the rashes 0, 

Green grow the rashes ; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 

Are s[)ent amang the la-sses 0. 

There 's naught but care on cv'ry ban', 
In every hour that passes O ; 

What signifies the life o' man. 
An' 't were na for the hxsscs O ? 

The warly raf:e may riches 
An' riches still may fly them O ; 

An' though at last they catch them l'a«t, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them O. 

Gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearii: O, 

An' warly cares an' warly men 
May all gae tapsalt<«rie (J. 

I'or you «ae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye 're naught but senseless asses I 

The wisest niaij the warl' e'er saw 
He dearly lo'ed the lasses 0. 

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears 
Her nolilest work she idasses () : _ 

Her 'prentice ban' she tried on man. 
An' then she nuule the lasses O. 

KOIIP.KT nl.'ll^ 


Cill/iK, w« must not always bo in heaven 
Forever toying, ogling, kissing, billing ; 

The joys for which I thousands woulil have given. 
Will presently bo scarcely woi'tli a shilling. 

Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows, 
And, sweetly swelling, beats the down ofiloves, 

Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose ; 

Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves ; 

Yet, though thus beautiful beyond expression, 

That beauty fadeth by too much iiossession. 

Economy in love is peace to nature. 
Much like economy in worldly matter ; 
We should be prudent, never live loo fast ; 
Profusion will not, cannot always last. 

Lovers are really spendthrifts — 't is a shame — 
Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame. 

Till penury stares theni in the face ; 
And when they finil an enijity [iiirsc, 
'jrown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse. 

And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace ! 
.Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thun<lcr hung. 
Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung. 

.Smell to the f(ucen of flowers, the fragrant row; — 
.Smell twenty times — and then, my dear, thy nose 
Will tell thee Oiot so much for scent athirst) 
The twentieth <lrank less flavor than ihejiral. 

Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows ; 

Yet often should the little god retire — 
Abiicnc(f, dear Chloe, is a pair of Isdlows, 

That keeps alive the himtikI tin:. 




I ll'> 

WJfAfN (»*' /.(»IK. 


AN INUKl-nUN .\UA\N!iT \,vlUM. 


.\\.\. Is not hmMo tlmt mIiIiu'IIi liiiulu li> sixwv, 
Not I'vii'i)' l>>m>v xxKiil, n.t Tuiiv lo >i>ilil, 
'Hio ilivjtivil MhiuuTO iilumn iliio I'lilimwl How, 
Ami MlMUfjiwI |ivi\»iii\n .irt (111' iHadiilolight, 

'Hio iilt>H!.i»\l Imilo ilolli hiilii llio liHi'ml'xU 

Auil 0>1j<i> >UH'oil oim loml « tVi<>iiill,v lnuko, 

l.i'V\i< Is tl\<> H^^l^l \vl»>«ti> OHtWKwl lu>\V (U(ll> H«**is 
\Vl\ivio livMl lH>j<lmiiiijft jjMixll^v ("WiuU" mi\k<> 
Of Hlii«>in\« fiiiw, uiiil hx'sli i\s Sidumi'i'n f;in»a<i, 
\V|iiv'l» iw'liliiH' a«i>mi> I'tiu niii\>lv mil' wiinl iim 

sl««ko i 
riiii nli.'ii ()>.' Kioiiia .'.lioiiM m llio lliv Ih' 

ri\i>}>\»Kl ix jj!\\u>>, tlu>>li\w»«> il»tl\ slilliiUUtv, 

lUviVWiUs ll»' lUxuv so IWI>, ."«> fiitiv, s<> >jn,Vi 
So s\vi»i>( (<> stiM'll, »> sol"! In liiuvli «»<1 trtst ; 
As si>o\«<^« U sliowld oinhwv l\v ii)5)il li«' uyxs 
At(>l «>'«<<(' \w with nn,v siwi'Hiii ilofosi i 

\\\\\ \\\w\\ il\o lv)U<l\il M>«il\<>>in> \vi»\il \loU> 

0<v«i> is \\w jjlvviy \\liio>> \\ m-sl viivl sUow, 

t,>w<> is tl\i> stixvjuMo, wUivso waufts so vs'vhuly rt»\v 
As \hIj{1i( i\>lti'<< u\<>\>'s «\i»ils (o \vtt>lo tl»invi» i 
\,o«>' is \\w i>oiso« »il\l \vitl> »>V)j«r siS 
As \i\ij;t>t •'> oHt\V!>i\l s\v<><M«i>»si> likii\j; \vi«, 

\\\\{ US llu> >i<>.'lvt> v^^H•|^^l^^ i\\,i< s(»\vs |\y ^»^^!lth 
Sw jvovSiWl >»«iV >>iV<'V«M \>l'i>\}<SvH^Vt«i«><> i><>i>ll\, 

>.>M\i> is \\w Mtx\ \vl>iv«' Irtslo tl\o rtsl> iltvoiiuvs, 
Awvl makivtthomswidUnv >lo\\\>ll>iH'li«kiii};)i>vko; 

\ .v>»0 is 1 1\<< l^\v-t' W I\IW1> fi»iv\\<>4S<' i\i<i»^x"\iu>)>l \\s>»ivs, 

A\ul »»«k<>s tlxH' ti'Hst !» I«lst> juivl l'i>iii>M loivki- ! 
U\>t rts ()>o t\.vko(hi- l\v\1isU tisK .loih kill. 
Sv> rt,'>t.t'vi>vsl»<»k<\s !)»<> >ovw'»Uf<>>l<MUs\\iU, 


I >)«iv>k)_\ slnvv>kl tlio wiUow \vi\'>v ; 
V\i» \\\>»lii I <\\sm', \\\it <no\\ s*j' 
\VI>i>» )»vo is tiisl l»o will awav ; 
'lM>o« ivU «vis \v>v<\ \v)ml sUaM \ (ivx 
'IV >'\\iv thtw IW\^ \vhivi\<''i>\' \ \v\v\x t 

Tl\»> fi>ii- >\w<> shi* 's » «>»vk h> *\k 
')M«> \\«\\\\n .xso)* >\\>.i ,iv\tU \o\vl\' (vMl, 

Tlvo \\l!>i'k V » )y\->vl i>\ fivir \\>i>u's oywv. 

rtii- >\v>it \\il\ stvH>j> »t swy iwirt' ! 

I'hi'H tx>U \»<s kms \vh«< slisU I i>v> 
'l\> v'vuv lhiv«T> tK'M-s, \vl><<«cVr I \v>w J 


\YllO|{'li.l( sill' Iv. 

'I'llill Dol liii|i».>i»il>lo Slii> 

'I'liiil shuU oominmiil iii.v liwni auil iin' ; 

\Vlioi>t''i'V slu> lio, 

l..ii'Ko<l ii|\ ftMiii mnitiil i\vi< 

In sl\ii\lj' Imwiw oriU>,ili\i_v ; 

'IMlllliiit lipo Uirlh Kiiti' stiuul I'oidi, 

Au.l l.i!n-li h.-r l\(li' sL-jis 1.1 .»ii .vulh ; 

'I'iU \\\M .llvi»o 

lil<>ii l.ik.' n sluiui> 

Or.'iyslrtl llissli, tlnM\ij;l\ wlii.-li t.> sliinc ; 

- MiH>t )'<«« 1\<>I', m,v Wish.w, 

\5««|H>i\k Ix'i" l.> m,v Idissus, 

A«il lio jii oidl.'.l, iu,v oKsciit kiss.w. 

I wish hi'V lH>f\»ty 

Thiit ow.-s \»iit nil its <l\\t,Y 

'IV )jrtu.l,v lios i>i' j{list'vti\n »l\.H>-ti« ; 

Sirtix'thii^j* («i>iv tlitm 
'1\>H<>I« ov liss\>o (NU>, 
Of \-;\iti)>iii\t l<>atK<>v, .>v iii'l\ f:m. 

A ftdv tlirtt 's Ixwt 

Hy its o\v<\ lH>«Ht\ ilwst, 

Au.l i-iiu rtlowo i~««n»iiml lln> wst ; 

A Tiuv uuul.' H\> 

iVit of u>> nllii'i' slu>i> 

'rU«« wluit NiU»ux''s wliilo Ivsu.l sivts o)).', 

Sy\l\u<»<u» Aliowxvrs 

I'll" swwt liis.vm's.-. whuso i><>\\ti-s 

l^Hi oivwii v>Ul Wiutoi-'s luvsil \vit1\ ll.iw.'rs. 

\VlH>t<<'0>~ lloH)«l«t 

l>a« «iak» .Inj's I'.uvIk^uI l<vij;l>t 
i^r jjivv .l.nvu to tho \viiij{s ot" uvjsht, 

s>>M\ silkon Uowx's, 

0))<iu sutis, slvrt.l;.- K»\\<'\-s ; 

'15.>v<> all, \)vMl>i\»jj \Yitliii\ tl\!>t lowoi-s, 

IVvs tl>»t «<Hsl Kinvw 

I«o l«vt of iht>i<- };^HH^ iHoviwv 

K»\MH a I.MVssjvut uijjlit ol~ svwvw ; 

I'^ys that, ill s)\ito 

OtMa»-k\>iy*s, l\v tl\o lijilit 

Ot'« >>liv!«r «>i>ui. atv' >la,v all >\i>;l>t, 

l.<tV that .laftw st-u.I 

A .>1»*1Umij;s> to l\is <>t».l. 

At>.l, \vl>o« it wwivs, say, " \V.-l,NMn,\ M.<u>i," 



Of wortli /(«iy liatvi! )i';r jK/i/r 

Ol' wii«li<!ii ; itii'I I viMt wi mm':. 

Sow, iCi'llIU; k/l((W» 
'J'li/it llw wlii;)c: ni/li;iiit t/rowK 
W<!(»vi! tlii!j(i (t usirUiiiii <it my vawa ; 

Uw lliat <lai<M) Ix; 

VVluit lliBW! liii'X wluli t/j m-M : 

I )*(;<jk (Kj fiirtli<-.f, It. I» Hli«. 

"J' l« Hf)/:, (tfi/l lM;ri! 

/<<j ! I mi':loU)fc ami clear 

My winli';*' <:l'<i<<ly i:hnriu:U:t. 

Hiicli wr<rtl) ;« this i« 
Htiall CiJ! /riy (lyixK wislifto, 
Ali'l ili;U:rmilli: tlluHl t/< ki«W!», 

!,<:(, Jiiif full {(I'^ry, 

My hw.\i;H, fly Ixiforo yr: ; 

J^iiy*: my lU-Xioim, - l/iil licr nUiry, 

"'I'li'iy aay ]iiv nivnu au will ;w Uki.a ; 

liii). I 'ill u iiiiii|il>: ii/aji|irii, 
My iii'/t.liiir'x (imt. miilli; wli';ii nli". wak/!* 

1 iil.lll liavv miiH'ul aii'l |/iay':<l in, 

" I '/Illy know my iii'/llmr'ii lovi; 

Wlii'li n'r/iM all ami a«kii imlliiiin, 
Ali'l l.llis m;w I'/villX With I.Ik: ll,liKiV'; 

'I'm, iiiii'ili III'! v/ay 'd l'/alliiii;<, 

" l/'fl|l:)l«t Ik: ){iv<:lt III': all ill Itillilllli; 

I r»if<:it all lliiii({* liy liiiii : 
'I'll!! risk In UnrHAi: aii'l nliniij^i; 
I tri:iiilil<:, 'loiil/t., 'I<:iiy liiiii. 

" 111! '« >iWi«;U«t Irl'iii'l, '/I tiar<li:»t. fw, 
l{<«t aii((i:l, or wi/rut 'l<;vll ; 

I <:itl|l!l liaM; 1,1 ■ \l,Vl: llllll "i. 
I (Mlj't, Id; lli<;|i:ly civil I 

" Voii liiinl a y/iiiii:lii v/lm (nilc (V/ 
(l<;r \iii,iiMimi', tlii'k an nimiiicr'K '( 

Villi ttiiiik Ktii; <lri:aiii» v/lial liivn in, 
Will/ cauls il ty; iicwm/liicrK < 

AMW, c.lUIKI.rV. 

FAdi Amy ol'tlic U-.n-.u-M ln/iiw, 

Aniiiil. iiic I/; Aiv.hV.r 
Wliy you v/lio woiiM not. Iiurt a uioiw, 

'>ii Uirtiirc WI your lover. 

You «ivi: your codec l/i tlic cat, 

Voii Kl.rokc till; do;/ for ijimiiif^, 
Ali'l all your IWrc ^(rowii kiii'lcr at, 

Tlic little \ir'iwii ix-Ji'n liiiiiiiiiiii;{. 

IJiit wliftii /«! Iiaiintu your 'lw;r, - the t'/wri 
MurkH e'imiiig ami marku ti,''*<'V,, 

Son w«;iii (.« Iiave ulilj.ln-A your ';yeli'|j) <lowri 
To tliat long (yic<* of Hi:wiuK ! 

Voii never give a look, not you, 
N'oi ilroj/ dim a "Oixxl morning," 

7'o kei:)! liin long 'lay warm and l<liic, 
Ho fietlcd tiy your w-z/rning. 

Hlie stio'ik )ier head ; " The nioiiw! ami W; 

Kor eriinih or (lower will linger; 
The dog in Uiififiy at my knee. 

The cat (iiKTis at my finger, 

" Hut /«! — Ui ki/iri., till! Ifcoiit thing given 
.Vl/a/m gri;at thingx at a 'liiitan'* ; 

lie wantK my wirld, my nun, my hcavc-n, 
Houl, U;dy, whole nxhUtruK, 

"Hiich love 'li a 'rov/nlii'- I/all t/, fling, 

A iiiomi:iit'ii I'ri-lty (/a'.time ; 
I give all me, if anything, 

'I'll'! tilii': aii'l tli'; l;u(t time. 

" liear neightior of tlie trelllwyl houw,, 
A man nhoiild murniiii never, 

Though U'liUA woiw: tlian 'log and nioun/: 
Till dol./:d on forever ! " 


HllAl.l. I, wanting in <le«{>!iii, 
l;ie hw^auw! a v/oman 'ft fair ? 
(^n- niake //ale my chwkn with can- 
'Chiim another'* ro«y are ? 
I5<; iilie f:iirer than the 'lay. 
Or the flowery nieadis in May, 
If lilie Ix; no), w> to me, 
What care I how fair she U ? 

Hhall my f'/'diah h':art. U: (line'l 
''.'aiii»; J i'.'-.i: a wiiiiiuii kind ? 
Or a vii:\ii\i»\,iitiiA nature 
./oinwl with a lovely (miiirK ? 
J{« nhe iiitii:ki:t, kimler than 
'I'he turtle-dove or (xli'Mii, 
If ftlie Ix; m/t. a/i t/> ine, 
Wliat '.are I how kind nhe Ix^ f 




Sliiill a \voniiin'.s vii'tmw niovn 
Ml' I.. |.urisli I'lM- li.'i- liivi' I 
Or, liiT wi'll-ilcwrviiiK-s known, 
Miiko mil ii»ilo I'lirj^i't mini' own ? 
liii slni Willi llml j{ooilnos.s lilcsl 
Wliicli niiiy nu'iit name of Imsl, 
If slio 1)11 nol s\ii'li to nn', 
What I'ai'o 1 liow gooil .sln' lie ? 

•Cans.' lii'i- loilnii,. socnis loo liifjli, 
Sliall 1 (.lay lllc Tool an, I ,li,' ' 
'I'lioso Unit, liiMU' a noM.' iiuial 
Wlu'iv they want nl li, Iivn IumI. 
'I'liinU wliat witli Ihrni thry wonlil do 
Tlial williont tlirni ilaiv to woo ; 

Anil iinlo.sN tlial, niinil 1 sw. 

What nuv 1 Low Kival sli,. 1.,. ( 

(iivat, or j;ooil, or Uinil, or lair, 
1 will no'or the nioro ilcspair; 
II' sli(> lovo nic, this boliovo, — 
1 will ilii' ore sho shall fjriovo. 
ll'sho slighl nu> when 1 woo, 
I ran siorn ami lot her v;o : 

For ir she \v nol lor in.'. 

What carr I for whom slio ho > 


I,i>VK. in my hosoni, liUo a hoo, 

Hotli sni'k his swoot ; 
Now with his winfjs ho plays with mo, 

Now with his foct; ; 
Within mini' oyos ho nnvki's his nost, 
His hoil aniitlst my tonih>r lux'nsl. 
My kissi's aro his ilaily fi'ast. 
Anil yt>t ho ixihs tuo of luy rest ; 

All! wanton, will vol" 

Anil if 1 slivp, thon poroholh ho 

With prwlty llijjht. 
Ami niakos his pillow of my knoe, 

'l"hi' livilon); nighf ; 
Strike 1 my Into, he tunes the string; 
He musie plays, if 1 hut sinsj; : 
He lemls mo every lovely thins;. 
Yet oruel, he my heart lUith sting : 

Whist ! wanton, still you I 

Klse 1 with roses every ilay 

Will whip you henoe. 
Anil himl you, when you lont; to play, 

Kor your otVense ; 
I '11 shut my oyoa to keep you in, 
1 '11 make von fust it for vour sin. 

I '11 eounl your power not worth a pin ; 
Alas I what liereliy shall 1 win 
If he gainsay me '( 

What if I heal the wanton hoy 

With numy a nul '. 
He will repay me with annoy, 

lieeause a j>oil ; 
'I'hen sit thou safely on my knee, 
Ami let thy hower my hosom he ; 
lank in mine eyes, 1 like of tlieo, 
tt Cnpiil 1 so Ihon |.ily nie, 

Spare mil, Inil piny lliee. 

TrioMAS Loncn. 


Crnn ami my I'ampaspe playeil 

At earils for kisses, - ("npiil paiil ; 

He slakes his ipiiver, how, ami arrows, 

His mother's iloves, ami team of sparrows, — 

Loses them too ; then ilown he throws 

The eoval of his lip, the rose 

Ci rowing on 's elieek (hut none knows how); 

With these the erystal on his brow, 

Ami then the ilimple of his eliin, — 

All these iliil my Campaspe win. 

At last he .set her both his eyes ; 

She won, ami I'npiil bliml iliil<. 

(> l.ove : hath she done this to thee f 

What shall, alas ! hoeoine of mo t 



Au ' Mhii hut oft hath marveleil why 

The goils, who rule aliove, 
Shoulil e'er )H'rmit the young to ilie, 

The ohl to fall in lov'e ' 

Ah : why shoul.l haples.s human kiml 
He p\inisheil out of season '. — 

Tray listen, ami perhaps you '11 linil 
My rhyme may give the ivnson. 

Hi'slh. strolling out one summer's ilay, 
Mel Cnpiil, with his sparrows ; 

Anil, bantering in ii nierry way, 
I'roiioseii a ehangi" of arrows. 

'■ Agreed ! " O|uotli t^upiil. " I foresoo 
The queerest game of errors ; 

For you the King of Hearts will be. 
Anil I 11 be King of Terrors ! " 

Ami so 't was done ; — alas, the day 
That multiplied their arts ! — 




Kdi:)) from tlic other tioiu itwuy 
A portion of Ills ilartH. 

Am! that rjxpliiiiiH thi; rnaHori why, 

IJ(;H|.it(; lh(! godH aliovo, 
'I'ho yoiiiix arc often ilooiiicil U) die, 

riie ohl to fall in h)ve I 



1, 11 not woman e'er eomfjhiin 

Of ineonHtancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er eoinphiin 

Fiekle man in apt to rove ; 
IjOoIc abroiii! tlirongli Xatiire'H range, 
Nature'H miglity law i» change ; 
l,ailie», would it not be strange 

Man Khould thi^n a monHter prove? 

Mark the wiijifn, and mark the Hkie» ; 

Oeeiiii'H el)l) and oeean'» flow ; 
8nn and moon hut net to riHe, 

Kound and roun<l the HeaxoiiH go. 
Why then (oik of Hilly man, 
To oppow! gi-eat Nature'H plan 'I 
We 'II he eoriHtant wliile we ean, — 

You ean hi; no more, you know. 

RoiieuT nu( 


An exquiHite invention thin. 

Worthy of Love's rnoxt honeyed kins, — 

This art of writing Hlld-duux 

III liiids, and odors, and bright hues! 

Ill Haying all one feels and thinks 

III r lever dalfodils and pinks ; 

In puns of tulips ; and in jihrases, 

''haniiing for tliiu'r tnitli, of daisies ; 

I.'ttering, a« well ;is silenee may, 

The sweetest words the sweetest way. 

How fit too for the lady's bosi^mi I 

The pla^ic where Inl/et-tJfjux repose 'em. 

What delight in some sweet spot 

''r;mbining hwc with ijiirdcn plot, 

At onee to cultivate one's flowers 

And one's ejiist^jlary [mwcrs ! 

f Growing one's own choice words and fancies 

In orange tubs, and fxjds of jKinsies ; 

One's sighs, and passionate ilcdarations. 

In odorous rhetoric of carnations ; 

Seeing how far one's stor;ks will rea^di, 

'I'aking due care one's flowers of spwjcli 

To gu.ard from blight as well (U) bathos, 

And wat<;ring every day one's jjathos I 

A letter comes, just gathcrwL We 

Dote on its tender brilliancy, 

Inhale its delicate expressions 

Of balm ami |iea, and its confessions 

Millie with as sweet a lanidtn' h libmh 

As evei' morn bedewed on bush : 

("V is in reply to one of ours, 

Miulc of the most convincing flowers.) 

Then, after we have kissed its wit, 

And heart, in wal4:r putting it 

(To keep its remarks fresh), go roiinil 

Oiir little eloipient plot of ground. 

And with enchant.ed hands compose 

Our answer, — all of lily and rose. 

Of tuberose and of violet, 

And lilllr, iliirliwj (mignonette) ; 

Of hiiik id iiu: and caUI wv to yiM 

(Words that, while they greet, go through you); 

(nthoHijIiIji, i,\Jl(mcH, fwij(:l..m<.-ni,l, 

HriikvMH, — in short, the whole blest lot 

Of vouchers for a lifelong kist, — 

And literally, breathing bliss ! 


EvKKV wedding, says the |iroverb, 
Makes another, wion or lat<; ; 

Never yet wan any m/imagc 
KnUired in the hook of fat*:, 

T'ut the names were alw> written 
Of the patient [lair that wait. 

lilessings then upon the mondng 
When my friend, with fondest look, 

IJy the solemn rites' peniiission. 
To himsidf his mistress t/iok, 

And the destinies recorded 
Other two within their book. 

While the priest fulfilled his office, 
.Still the ground the lovers eyed, 

And the parents and the kinsmen 
Aimed their glances at the liride ; 

I5ut the groomsmen eyed the virgin* 
Who were waiting at her side. 

Three there were that stood Is'side her ; 

One was dark, and one was fair; 
But nor fair nor dark the other, 

.Save her Arab eyes and hair ; 
Neither dark nor fair I call her, 

Yet she wao the fairest there. 

While }ier groomsman — shall I own it ? 

Yes, (0 thee, and only thee - 
O.'ized njKjn this dark-eyed maiden 

Who wa« faii-i'st of the three, 
Thus he thought ; " How blest the bridal 

Where the bride were such a« she 






Tlu'ii I iiuiscd upon tlio ailnge, 
'I'ill my wisdom was pi'i'iilexeil. 

And 1 wondered, as the ehuivhmnu 
Puilt uixiii his holy text, 

Whiili of idl wlio lieai'd his lesson 
yhuuld ivnuire the service next. 

Whose will he the next oeeasiou 

I'Vn- the llowers, the feast, the wiuo ? 

Thine, perchance, my dearest lady ; 
Or, who knows? — it may be mine ; 

What if 't were— forgive the fancy — 
What if 't were — both mine and thine? 
THOMAS William Parsons. 


My eyes ! how 1 love you, 
You sweet little dove you ! 
Tlieix' 's no one above you. 

Most beautiful Kitty. 

So glossy your hair is. 
Like a sylph's or a fairy's ; 
And your neck, I declare, is 
Exquisitely pretty ! 

Quite Grecian your nose is. 
And your cheeks are like roses, 
So delicious — Jloses ! 

Surpassingly sweet ! 

Xot the beauty of tulips. 
Nor the taste of mint-juleps. 
Can eomiiare with your two lips, 
Most beautiful Kate ! 

Not the black eyes of Juno, 
Nor Minerva's of blue, no, 
Nor Venus's, you know. 

Can equal your own ! 

0, how my licai-t prances. 
And frolics luid dances. 
When its I'adiant glances 

Upon me are thrown ! 

And now, dearest Kitty, 
It 's not very pretty, 
Indeed it 's a pity. 

To keep me in sorrow I 

So, if you "11 but chime in. 

We '11 have done with our rliymin'. 

Swap Cupid for Hjnucu, 

And be nituried to-morrow. 



"Yor have heard," said a youth to his sweet- 
heart, who stood. 
While ho sat on a corii-shcaf, at dnyliglit's 
decline, — 
" You have heard of the Diuiish boy's whistle of 
wood ■ 
I wish that that Danish boy's whistle were mine. " 

" Ami what would you do with it ? — tell me," 
she said, 
While an arch smile jdayed over her beautiful 
" I would blow it," he answered ; " and then my 
fair maid 
AVould tly to my side, and would here take her 

"Is that all you wish it for ? — That may be yours 
Without liny magic," the fair maiden cried ; 

" A favor so slight one's good-nature secures " ; 
And she playfully seated herself by his side. 

"I would blow it again," said the youth, " ami 

the charm 

Would work so, that not even Modesty's check 

Would be able to keep from my neck your line arm " : 

She smiled, — and she laid her lino arm round 

his neck. 

" Yet once more would 1 blow, and the music 
Would bring me the third time an exquisite 
bliss : 
■you would lay your (iur check to this brown one 
of mine. 
And your lips, stealing past it, would give me 
a kiss." 

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee, — 
"What a fool of yourself with your whistle 
yovi 'd make ! 
For only consider, how silly 't would be. 
To sit there ami whistle for — what vou might 



' When the Sultan Shah-Zaman 

t\ies to the city Ispahan, 

Even before he gets so far 

As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, 

.\t the last of the tliirty palace-gates, 
I The Pet of the Harem, Hose in Bloom, 
1 Oixlers a feast in his favorite room, — 







Glittering scjuares of colored ice, 

Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice ; 

Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates ; 

Syrian apples, Othmanee (ininees, 

Limes, and citrons, and apricots ; 

And wines that are known to Eastern princes. 

Aiicl Nubian slaves, with smoking pots 

Of s])ieed meats, and costliest fish. 

And all tliat the curious palate could wish. 

Pass in and out of the cedam doors. 

Scattered over mosaic floors 
Aie anemones, myrtles, and violets ; 
And a musical fountain throws its jets 
( If !i hundred colors into the air. 
Tlie dark Sultana loosens her hair. 
And stains with the henna plant the tips 
Of her pearly nails, and bites her lijis 
Till they bloom again ; but alas, tlud rose 
Not for the Sultan buds and blows ! 
Not for the Sultan Shah-Zarn/in 
When he goes to the city Ispalian. 

Then at a wave of her sunny hand, 
The (lancing girls of Samarcand 
Float in like mists from Fairy-land ! 
And to the low voluptuous swoons 
Of music, lise and fall the moons 
or their full brown bosoms. Orient blood 
Kuns in their veins, shines in their eyes ; 
And there in this Eastern paradise. 
Filled with the fumes of sandal-wood. 
And Khoten musk, and aloes, and myrrh. 
Sits Hose in Bloorn on a silk divan. 
Sipping the wines of Astrakhan ; 
And her Arab lover sits with her. 

That 's v'Jicn tlie Sultan Sluih-ZaTnan 

Goes to the city Ispahan. 

Now, when I see an extra light 
Flaming, flickering on the night, 
From my neighbor's casement opposite, 
I know as well as I know to pray, 
I know as well as a tongue can say. 

That tlie innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman 

Has gone to the cily Ispahan. 

Thomas Bailey alurich. 


T' OTllElt day, as I was twining 
Roses for a crown to dine in. 
What, of all things, midst the heap. 
Should I light on, fast asleep. 
But the little desperate elf. 
The tiny traitor, — Love himself ! 
By the wings I pinched him up 
Like a bee, and in a cup 

Of my wine I plunged and sank him ; 
And what d' ye think I flid ? — I drank him ! 
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he ! 
There he lives with tenfold glee ; 
And now, this moment, with his wings 
I feel hhu tickling my heart-strings. 

Laicii Hunt. 


The young May moon is beaming, love. 
The glow-wonn's lamp is gleaming, love, 

How sweet to rove 

Through Morna's grove. 
While the drowsy world Ls dreaming, love ! 
Then awake ! — the heavens look blight, my dear ! 
'T is never too late for delight, my dear ! 

And the best of all ways 

To lengthen our days 
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear ! 

Now all the world is sleeping, love. 

But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, 

And I, whose star. 

More glorious far. 
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. 
Then awake ! — till of sun, my dear, 
The sage's glass we 'U shun, my dear. 

Or, in watching the flight 

Of bodies of light, 
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear ! 
Thomas Moork. 


"Ah, sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your wheel, 
Your neat little foot will be weary from spin- 
ning ; 
Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree ; 
Half the palish is there, and the dance is be- 
The sun Is gone down ; but the full harvest moon 
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened 
valley ; 
While all the air rings with the soft, lovingthings 
Each little bird sings in the green shadc<l alley." 

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the 
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, 
glancing ; 
'T is hard to refuse when a young lover sues. 
So she could n't but choose to — go ofl" to the 
And now on the green the glad groups are seen, — 
Kach gay-hearted lad with the lass of his 
choosing ; 






And Pal, without I'liil, Ic^uls out swi-ft lutly 
Neil, — 
Somehow, when he asked, slic ne'er tliou^ht of 

Now Kelix Magee ]mts liis \npofi to liin kneo, 
And, witli Ikiurish so IVee, sets eaeh eou|ile in 
motion ; 
Willi a clieer anil a bound, the lads ]iatter the 
The maids move around just like swans on the 
Cheeks bright as the rose, — feet light as the Joe'.s, 

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; 
Search the world all around from Die sky to the 
No siu-h siglit can be I'ouml as an Irish lass 
daiu'ing ! 

Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes 
of deep blue. 
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so 
Your fail-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded 
Nor feel his heart warm, and his )hi1si« throb 
wildly ? 
Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, 
Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet 
love ; 
The siglit loave.s his eye as he cries with a sigh, 
"Dance light, for my heart it lies under your 
feet, love ! " 



Pt;NC.\N (luAY cam' here to woo — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
Oil blytlie Yule night when wo were fou- 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
Maggio coost her head fu' Iiigh, 
Looked asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigli — 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! " 

Duncan lleeclied and Ihinean prayed — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
Duncan sighed baith out and in, 
Grat his ecu baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowjiin o'er a linn — 

11a, ha ! the wooing o't ! 

Time and chance arc but a tide — 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 

g-. : 

Slighted love is .snir In bide — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 

Shall 1, like a fool, iiuoth he, 

I'lir a haughty hizzie dee ? 

Shc^ may gae to— France for mo ! 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't 1 

How it comes let doctors tell — ■ 

Ha, ha I the wooing o't ! 

Meg grew sick as lie grew heal — 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I 

Something in her bosom w-rings, — 

For relief a sigh she brings ; 

And t), her een they si)eak sic things ! 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 

Duncan was a lail o' grace — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I 

Maggie's was a ])iteous case • — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 

Duncan could na be her death : 

Swelling pity smoored liis wrath. 

Now they 're eronse and canty liaith, 
lla, ha ! th.' wo.iiiig o't ! 



YdiiNf! Dory O'More courted Kalhlei'ii Hawii ; 
Hewas bold as the hawk, and she soft as the dawn ; 
Ho wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please. 
And he thought the best way to do that was to 

" Now, Kory, be aisy,"swcet Kathleen would cry. 
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in hrr eye ; 
"With your tricks, I don't know, in llinilh, what 

I 'm about ; 
Faith you've toazcd till 1 've put on my cloak 

inside out." 
" Och ! jewel," says Kory, " that saiiie is the way 
You 've thrated my heart for this many a day ; 
And 't is phized that 1 am, and why not, to lie sure ? 
For 't is all for good luck," .says bold Kory O'More. 

"Indeed, then," .savs Kathleen, "don't think of 

the like. 
For I half gave a promise to soothering Jlike ; 
The ground that I walk on he lo\-,.s, 1 '11 be 

bound " — 
" Faith ! " says Eory, " 1 'd rather love you than 

the ground. " 
"Now, Uory, 1 'U cry if j'ou don't let me go : 
Sure 1 dream ev'ry night that 1 'm hating you 

so ! " 
"Och!" says Kory, "that same I'm delighted 

to hear. 
For dhrames alwavs go bv coiithraiies, luv dear. 





Och ! jnwel, kfcp dliramiiig tli.-it saine till you 

And bright raorniug will give dirty iiiglit tlio 

black lie ! 
And 't is jilazed that I am, and why not, to lie 

sure ? 
Shire 'tis all for good luck," says bold llory 


"Arrah, Kathleen, my darliiit, you've teazed 

me enough ; 
Sure, 1 've thrashed, for your sake, Diuny Orinies 

and Jim Duff ; 
And I 've made myself, drinking your health, 

([uite a baste. 
So 1 think, after that, I may talk to the priest." 
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her 

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; 
And he lookeil in her eyes, that were beaming 

with light, 
And ho kissed her sweet lips — Don't you think 

he was right ? 
"Now, llory, leave off, sir — you '11 hug me no 

more, — 
That 's eight times to-day you have kissed me 

"Then here goes another," says he, "to make 


For there's luck in odd lunnbers," .says Rory 


SAMuiiL Lover. 


0, THAT 's what you mean now, a bit of a song, 
Arrah, faith, tlien here goes, you sha'n't bother 

me long ; 
I require no teazing, no praying, nor slulf. 
By my soul, if you wish it, I 'ni ready enough 
To give you no end ; you shall have a beginning. 

And, troth, though the music is not over fine, 
'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 

Just to set us a-going and season the wine. 

0, I once was a lover, like some of you here. 
And could feed a whole night on a sigh or a tear. 
No sunshine I knew but from Kitty's black eye. 
And the world was a desert when she was n't by ; 
But the devil knows how, 1 got fond of Miss 

And Kitty slipt out of this bosom of mine. 
'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 

Just to set us a-going and season the wine. 

Now Betty had eyes soft and blue as the sky, 
And the lily was black when her bosom was nigh ; 
0, I vowed and I swore if she 'd not a kind eye 

1 'd give up the whole world and in banishment 

die ; 
But Nancy camo by, a round plump little crea- 
And li.ved in my heart quite another design. 
'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 
Just to sot us a-going and season the wine. 

Little Nance, like a Hebe, was buxom and gay. 
Had a bloom like the rose and was fresher tliau 

May ; 
0, 1 felt if she fro\vned 1 would die by a rope, 
And my bosom would burst if she slighted my 

hope ; 
But the slim, taper, elegant Fanny looked at me, 
And, troth, I no longer for Nancy could pine. 
'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 
Just to set us a-going and season the wine. 

Now Fanny's light frame was so slender and line 
That she skimmed in the air like a shadow divine. 
Her motion bewitched, and to :ny loving eye 
'T was an angel soft gliding 'twi.\t earth anil the 

'T was all mighty well till I saw her fat sistci-, 

And tlinl gave a turn I could never define. 
'T is a bit of a thing that a body might sing 

Just to set us a-going and season the wine. 

0, SI) I go on, ever constantly blest. 
For 1 find I 've a great stock of love in my breast ; 
And it never grows less, for whenever 1 try 
To get one in my heart, I get t>m in my eye. 
To all kinds of beauty 1 bow with devotion. 

And all kinds of liquor by turns I make mine ; 
So I '11 finish the thing that another may sing. 

Just to keep us a-going and season the wine. 


Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
That never has known the barber's shear. 

All your wish is woman to wdn ; 

This is the way that boys begin, — 
Wait till you come to foi-ty year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer, — 
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — 

Wait tUl you come to forty year. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ; 

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 
Then you know a boy is an, 
Tlien you know the worth of a lass, — 

Once you have come to forty year. 

• A boon companion of George. Prince Regent 






Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are gray, — 

Did not the fairest of the fair 

Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was past away ? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
May pray and whisper and we not list, 
Or look away and never be missed, — 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian' s dead ! God rest her bier, — 
How I loved her twenty years syne ! 

Marian' s married ; but 1 sit here. 

Alone and merry at forty year, 

Dipping my nose in the (!ascon wine. 




When first I saw sweet Peggy, 

'T was on a market-day : 
A low-backed car she drove, and sat 

Upon a truss of hay ; 
But when that hay was blooming grass. 

And decked with flowers of spring, 

No flower was there that could compare 
With the blooming girl I sing. 

As she sat in the low-backed car, 
The man at the turnpike bar 
Never asked for the toll. 
But just rubbed his ould poll, 
And looked after the low-backed car. 

In battle's wild commotion, 

Tlio proud and mighty Mars 
With hostile scythes demands his tithes 

Of death in warlike cars ; 
While Peggy, peaceful goddess, 

lias darts in her bright eye, 
Tluit knock men down in the market-town. 

As right and left they fly ; 
While she sits in her low-backed car, 
Thau battle more dangerous far, — 
For the doctor's art 
Cannot cure the heart 
That is hit from that low-backed car. 

Swi'ot Peggy round her car, sir. 

Has strings of ducks .and geese. 
But the scores of hearts she slaughters 

By far outnumber these ; 
While she among her poultry sits, 

Just like a turtle-dove. 
Well worth the cage, I do engage. 

Of the blooming god of Love ! 

While she sits in her low-backed car, 
The lovers come, near and far. 

And envy the chicken 

That Peggy is pickin'. 
As she sits in her low-backed car. 

I 'd rather own that car, sir. 

With Peggy by my siilc, 
Than a coach and four, and gold galore, 

And a lady for my bride ; 
For the lady would sit foniinst me. 

On a cushion made with taste, 
While Peggy would sit beside me, 
With my arm around her waist, 
While we drove in the low-backed car. 
To be married by Father Mahar ; 
0, my heart would beat high 
At her glance and her sigh, — 
Though it beat in a low-backed car ! 

Samuel Lovi 


Of all the girls that are so smart, 

There 's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 
There 's ne'er a lady in the land 

That 's half so sweet as Sallj' ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, 

And through the streets does cry 'em ; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to bu)' 'em ; 
But sure such folks could ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

When she is by I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely ; 
My master comes like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely. 
But let him bang his bellyful, — 

I '11 bear it all for Sally ; 
For she 's the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that 's in the week 

I dearly love but one day, 
And that 's the day that comes betwi.xt 

A Saturday and Monday ; 
For then 1 'm drest all in my best 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 




My master caixies me to church, 

And often am I blamfed 
Because I leave him in the lurch 

As soon as text is named : 
I leave the clmrch in sermon-time, 

And slink away to Sally, — 
SIic is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

When Christmas comes about again, 

0, then I shall have money ! 
I '11 hoard it up, and, box and all, 

I '11 give it to my honey ; 
And would it were ten thousand pound ! 

I 'd give it all to Sally ; 
For she 's the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master and the neighbors all 

Make game of me and Sally, 
And but for she I 'd better be 

A slave, and row a galley ; 
But when my seven long years are out, 

0, then I '11 many Sally ! 
0, then we '11 wed, and then we '11 bed, — 

But not in our alley ! 

HENRY Carey, 



LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it 's you I love the 

best ! 
If fifty girls were round you, I 'd hardly see the 

rest ; 
Be what it may the time of day, the place be 

where it will. 
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before 

me still. 

Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on 

a rock. 
How clear they are ! how dark they are ! and 

they give me many a shock ; 
Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with 

a shower. 
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has 

me in its power. 

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows 

lifted up, 
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like 

a china cup ; 
Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and 

so fine, — 
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered 

in a twine. 

The dance o' last Wliit-Monday night exceeded 

all before ; 
No pretty girl for miles around was missing from 

the floor ; 
But Mary kept the belt of love, and 0, but she 

was gay ; 
She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my 

heart away ! 

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were 

so complete. 
The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her 

feet ; 
The fiddler mouniod his blindness, he heard her 

so much praised, 
But blessed himself he was n't deaf, when once 

her voice she raised. 

And evennore I 'm whistling or lilting what you 

sung ; 
Your smile is always in my heart, your nanu- upon 

my tongue ; 
But you 've as many .sweetliearts as you 'd count 

on both your hands, 
And for my.sclf there's not a thumb or little 

finger stands. 

O, you 're the flower of womankind, in country 

or in town ; 
The higlier I exalt you, the lower I 'm cast down. 
If some great lord .should conu! this way and see 

your beauty bright, 
And you to be his lady, I 'd own it was but rigid. 

O, might wo live together in lofty palace hall, 

Where joyful music rises, an<l where scarlet cur- 
tains fall ; 

0, might we live together in a cottage mean and 

With sods of grass the only roof, and muil the 
only wall ! 

(-) lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty 's my dis- 
tress ; 

It 's far too glorious to be mine, but 1 '11 never 
wish it less ; 

The proudest place would fit your face, and I am 
poor and low. 

But blessings he about you, dear, wherever you 
may go ! 


I'd been away from her three years, — about that, 
And I returned to find my Mary true ; 

And though I 'd question her, I diduot doulit that 
It was unnecessary so to do. 







'T was liy the I'himnoy-i'onior wo were sitting : 
" Miiry," said 1, "have you boon always tnio ?" 

"Frankly," says sho.just iiausiiigiii luMkiiilting, 
" 1 don't think I 've uuraithl'ul been to yon : 

But for the three yoare past I '11 tell you what 

I 've done ; theu say if 1 've been true or not. 

'• Wlien first youleft my grief was uncoutrollablo ; 

Alone 1 nionrned my miserable lot ; 
And all wlio saw me thought me inconsolable. 

Till I'aiitain t'lillord eanie from Aldershott. 
To IliK with him anmsed me while 't was new : 
1 don't eount that unfaithfulness — do you ? 

"The next — 0! let me see — wasFrankierhimis; 

1 met him at my uncle's, Christnnis-tide. 
And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips meet lips, 

llegave me his first kiss — " And here shesiglied. 
"We stayed six weeks at uncle's — how time Hew 1 
I don't count that unfaithfulness — do yon ? 

" Cecil Fossmore — only twenty-one — 
Lent, me his horse. I1, how we rode and r.n'cd 1 

Wo scoured the downs — we rode to hounds - 
sneh fun ! 
And often was his arm about my waist, — 

That was to lift me up and down. But who 

Would call just that imfaithfulness > Would you ? 

" IVi you know Iveggy Verc ? Ah. how he sings ! 

Wemet, — 't wiisat a picnic. 0, such weather 1 
He ,g!U-e me, look, the fii-st of these two rings 

When wo were lost in Cliefdeu woods togetlier. 
All, what a happy tiuu> we spent, — we two ! 
1 don't count that unfaithfidiu'ss to you. 

" 1 've yet another ring from him ; d' ye see 
The plain gold eiix-let that is shining here ? " 

I took lier hand : "0 Mary ! eau it be 
That you — "Quoth she, "that I amMrs.A'ere. 

I don't call that uufaithfuliu»ss — do you ? " 

"No," I replied, "for I am married too." 



Winow maehree, it 's no wonder you frown, — 

Och hone ! widow nnichree : 
Faith, it ruins your looks, that siune dirty black 
gviwn, — 
Oeh hone ! widow machit^e. 
How altered your air. 
With that close cap you wear, — 
'T is destroying your hair. 

Which should bo thiwing free : 
Be no longi'r a churl 
Of its black silken curl, — 
Oeh hone ! widow maehree ! 

Widow maehree, now the summer is come, — 

Och hone ! widow maehree. 
When everything smiles, should a beauty look 
glum > 
Och hone ! widow nuichroo I 
See the birds go in pairs, 
.\nd the rabbits and hares ; 
Why, even the bears 

Now in couples agree ; 
And the mute little lish. 
Though they can't spake, they wish, — 
Och hone ! widow maehree ! 

Widow maehree, and when winter comes in, — 

t)ch hone ! widow maehree, . — 
To be poking the tiro all alone is a sin, 
Och hone ! widow maclu'oe ! 
Sure the shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs. 
And the kettle sings songs 

Fiill of family glee ; 
While alone with your cup 
Like a hermit you sup, 
Oeh hone ! widow maehree ! 

And how do von know, with the comforts 1 've 
to'wld, — 
Och hone ! widow maelueo, — 
lUit von 're keeping some poor fellow out in the 
eowld ? 
Och hone ! widow maehree ! 
With such sins on your head, 
Sure your peace would be Hod ; 
Could yon sleeji in your bod 

Without thinking to see 
Sonu' ghost or some sprite. 
That would wake you each night. 

Crying "Och bono ! widow maehree I " 

Then t.nke my advice, darling widow machiee, — 

Och hone ! widow maehree, — 
And with my advice, faith,! wish you 'd take me, 
Oeh hone ! widow maehree ! 
Yo\i 'd have me to desire 
Then to stir up the fire ; 
And sure hope is no liar 

In whispering to mo 
That the ghosts would depart 
When yon "d me near your heart, — 
Oeh hone ! widow maehree ! 

Samcel Lover. 


The lairvl o' Coekpon lie 's prond and he 's great. 
His mind is ta'en \\\> with the things o' the state ; 
He wanted a wife his bn\w house to keep. 
But favor wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. 






Down liy the dike-side a la<ly did dwell, 
At his taWe-liead he thought she 'd look well ; 
M'Lisli's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, 
A i«uiiiil(as lass wi' a lang pedigree. 

His wig was weel pouthered, and as gude as new; 
Mis waistcoat was white, his coat it w'as blue ; 
He put on a ring, a sword, and eocked liat. 
And wlia eould refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? 

Ill; took the gray mare, and rade canidly — 
And rapjjcd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Leo : 
" 'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, 
She 's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen." 

Mistress Jean was makin' the cdder-flower wine : 
" Anrl what brings the Laird at sic a like time *" 
Slie put atr her apron, and on her silk gown, 
Hir iMUteh wi' red ribbons, and gae<l awa' down. 

And when she cam' ben, lie bowed fu' low. 
And what was his errand he soon let her know; 
.'Vniazed was the Laird when the lady said " Xa" ; 
.And wi' a laigh curtsey she turned awa'. 

Dunibfouudered he was — nae sigli did he gio ; 
He mounted his mare — he rade cannily ; 
Aiid aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, 
"She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." 

And now that the Laird his exit had made, 
Mistress .Jean she rellected on what she had said ; 
"Oh ! for ane 1 '11 get better, it 's waur I '11 get ten, 
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." 

Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen, 
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the 

Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen — 
Hut as yet there 's nae chickens appeared at Cock- 

Carolina, liARoNiiss Nairn. 


" Have other lovers — say, my love — 

Loved thus before to-day ? " 
"They may have, yes, they may, my love ; 

Not long ago they may." 

" P.iit, though they worshiped thee, my love, 

Thy maiden heart was free ? " 
" Don't ask too much of me, my love ; 

Don't ask too much of me." 

" Vet, now 't is you and I, my love, 
Love's wings no more will fly ?" 

' If love could never die, my love. 
Out love should never die." 

' For shame ! and is this so, my love, 

And Love and 1 must go ?" 
' Indeed, I do not know, my love. 

My life, I do not know." 

' You will, you must bo true, my love, — 

Not look and love anew ! " 
' I '11 see what I can do, my love, 

I '11 see what 1 can do. " 



Deak Ned, no doubt you'll be surjiriseil. 

When you receive and read this letter. 
I 've railed against the marriage state ; 

But then, you see, I knew no better. 
I 've met a lovely girl out here ; 

Her manner is — well — very winning : 
Wo 're soon to be — well, Ned, my dear, 

I '11 tell you all, from the beginning. 

I went to ask her out to ride 

Last Wednesday — it wa.s perfect weather. 
She saiil she could n't possibly : 

The servants had gone olf together 
(Hibernians always nish away. 

At cousins' lunerals to be looking) ; 
Pics must be made, and she must stay. 

She said, to do that branch of cooking. 

"0, let me help you," tlicn I cried : 

" I '11 be a cooker too — how jolly 1 " 
She laughed, and answered, with a smile, 

" All right ! but you '11 repent your folly : 
For I shall be a tyrant, .sir, 

And good hard work you '11 liavc to grapple 
So sit down there, and don't you stir, 

liut take this knife, and pare that afiiile." 

She rolled her sleeve above her arm, — 

That lovely arm, so plump and rounded ; 
Outside, the morning sun shone bright ; 

Inside, the dough she deftly pounded. 
Her little fingers sprinkled flour, 

And rolled the pie-crust up in masses : 
I passed the most delightful hour 

Mid butter, sugar, and molasses. 

With deep reflection her sweet eyes 
Gazed on each pot and pan and kettle : 

She .sliced the apples, filled her pies. 
And then the upjwr crust did settle. 




llii iiii|iling wavoH (irftciMrii Imir 

III .1111. urml i-iiil wi'iv tiglilly Iwisli.,! ; 

Bill l,..-ki w,.ul.l l.iViiU il, ii.T,.' 1111.1 Ih.'iv, 
Aii.l .url iil...iil wli.M.M.i llii.y lislr.l. 

Aii.l llu'ii li.T sl.vv,. .■Mill.. .L.ttii, :iii.l 1 

K;iMl.Mi,..l it ii|. h.'i hmi.U «.'i(. ,I.Mi-liy; 
O. il cli.l tali.. 111.. Idii^'.'sl liiiu. I 

llov mill,, WMN Nil iimiul mul siinwy. 
Sli,. l.lusli,.,!, iiii.l livnil.U'.l, ami Unikwl sl'iv ; 

S,>\v tliiit iiiM.U. nil. nil til.' I...l<l.'i". ' 
ll.'niivli lips l.iok...l so ml tlial I 

W.'ll loiuul luT liwul iii»iii my ,sli,.uUU.r. 

W,. 'iv I.. I... luMni.'.l, No.l, m-xl mmilli ; 

C.MllO 1111.1 nil.. 11.1 llu. Wl'll.lillg IVV.'Is. 

I iviilly lliiiik Uiiil liiu'lielors 

All. Ilio most iiiisi'iiiMi. ili'vils ! 
Von M Lrtlor go soiii.. niil's Imml ; 

Anil if yon iiic iiiu'i.rtniii wtn'lhiT 
\'..i. .Inn. lo iiuvUi. n iliio lU'iimii.l, 

Wliy, jiisl try cooking pii's logollior. 


A roiri' lovml u Star, 

Anil lo il wliisiH'ivil nightly, 

" lii'ing so lair, wliy ni't tlion, lov.', so I'nr / 

(If vvliy so rolilly sliino, who shiucat so Iniglil 

II Hi.iinty woooil ami iinpossost ! 

(1, might 1 to tlii.s beating lii'nisl 

Itul i-lasii thi'i. oin-c, ami thru ilio Must ! " 

'I'lial .Star hrr Pout's lov.., 

.So wihlly warm, inaih. Inimnii ; 

.\ii.l leaving, tor his siiko, lirr hi'a\ ill nliovi.. 

His Star stoopml ..artliwar.l, iiml hciuii 

'•Tlioii who hasi woocil ami hast imssi'st. 
My lovi.r, answer : Which was licsl, 
'I'lui Star's hiiani or the Woman's hreast /" 
" 1 miss I'roni heaven," the iniin reiiliod, 
■•A light that .Irew my spirit to it." 
Ami to the iiiiiii the woman sighe.l, 
" 1 miss IVoui earth a poet." 





'I'lriJil'. nn^ wlio miy IIm' Iovit'h lii'iirt 

Im in 111.' lovr.l , •;, luiiyiii ; 

O, iK'Vcf liy I(iv(i'k iiwji wiinii iirt 

St) colli a ploa wiiH n^nd 1 
Nil ! — liiiarU llml, lovii crowiioil or croHHod 

l.uvr roiiilly kiiilH l.i)f;(iUier ; 
r.iit lint, a lliiiiif^lil 1)1' liui! Ih loHt 

Tliiil niiiili: a |>arl. iil' I'iUiiw'. 

II. JHan ilMiilil lali. Ilial. tills 

III' "liuai'lH ]>y lovi) iiiaili; iiiiii"; 
III- niowH who iiwir aiKiUicr'H iIwdIIh 

Moro coiiKriiiiiH iiC liJH own ; 
In I'ai'li »|irin({ iiji ni:w tliouj^hlH ami powcrH 

'I'liat,, mill lovd't) wai'iri, clnar wiiatlier, 
'I'liKi'lliiM' l.nnil liko rlimliiiif^ IIowci'h, 

y\iii|, Iniiiiiig, f^i'inv togiillior. 

■Siiili lictions Mink Iovi^'h lii'Ucr jiart, 

Vii'lil u|iil.H liairon.liMS; 
'I'lm wi'IIh all) ill l.liii niiiglibor hoart, 

Will II llii'i'ii JM tliirHl. ill tliiH : 
'I'll! II- liiiili-lli lovo Uic ]iaHKion-llowcr» 

On wliii-li it. liiai-iiH to tlirivi), 
Miiki-s liiiiiiiy in anotlii-i-'H lioworn, 

Hut liriiif^H it homo to liivii. 

I.ovd's lifu i« in itH own i-ciilinn, — 

'IV, (iiicli low lifat; it lii-atH, 
HniildH liiick the mnlliM, Hi((liH back tlin iiiKlm, 

And ovp.ry tlii'oli ivi|)('ntH. 
'I'lii'ii, Kiiico oiKi loving heart Htill throwH 

Two hIiiiiIowh in Iovii'h mm, 
How hIioiiIiI two loviiin li(iari,H coinpimi' 

Ami iniiiKh) into ono ? 


Tiloi; haHt sworn 1)y thy floil, my .loaiiii-, 
Hy tliat pretty wliitu hainl o' thine, 

Anil liy a' tin- lowiiif^ Htai'H in hnavi-n, 
Tliai, thou wail ayo Im mine ! 

Ami I liai- Hworii hy iiiy (ioil, my Jeanic, 

Ami hy lliut kinil heart o' thine, 
liy a' the HtarH Howii tliiek owre heaven, 

That thou Hlialt aye hi- mine I 

Then toul hi' the ImmlH that wad loiwe »ii- hamlH, 

Anil the heart that wad part sic luve ! 
lint there 'h line hand eaii looMe my hand, 

Mut the linger o' Mini almve. 
Though the wee, wee eot maun he my hii-ld. 

Ami my elaithing ne'er wie mean, 
I wad lap me up rieh i' the I'auldH o' luve, — 

Jleaven'H arinrir o' my Jean. 

Her white arm wad lu! a jiiUow for me, 

Fu' Halter than the down ; 
And I.uve wad winnow owre uh IiIn kind, kind 

And Hweetly I 'd hleep, and noun'. 
Come hei-e to me, thou 1««h o' my luve I 

I'ome hei-e and kneel wi' me ! 
The morn in fu' o' the preHenee o' God, 

And I lanna pray without thee. 

The morn wind in Kweet 'inarig the liedn o' new 

The wee hirdn Hing kindlie and hie ; 
flur giidernan leaiiK owre IiIh kiile-yard dike, 

And a hlytheanld lioilie i;, he. 
The I'.eiik maun he tii'en whan the r.-nle i-onieH 

Wi' the lioly imalmodie ; 
And thou maun speak o' me to thy Hod, 

And I will K|jeak o' thee. 


Makk me no vowh of eoiiHtaney, dear friend. 

To love me, though I die, thy whole life long. 
And love no other till thy ilayH shall end, — 
Nay, it were rash and wrong. 

ir lli.iu i-anst love another, he it ao ; 

I would not n-ai-h out of njy ipiiet grave 







To bind tby lieart, if it should cliooso to go ; — 
Love sliould not be a slave. 

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene 

In (Jearer light than gilds thusr earthly morns. 
Above the jealousies and envies keen 

Which sow this life with tlioms. 

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy earess. 

If, after death, my soul should linger here; 
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness. 
Love's presence, warm and near. 

It would not make me sleep more peacefully 
'I'luU tliou wcrt wasting aU thy life in woe 
For my poor sake ; what love thou hast for me. 
Bestow it ere I go ! 

Carve not upon a stone when 1 am dead 

The praises which remorseful mourners give 
To women's graves, — a tardy reconipense, — 
But speak them while I live. 

Heap not the heavy marble on my head 

To shut away the sunshine and the dew ; 
Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses 
And raiu-drops filter through. 

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay 

Than I ; but, trust me, thou canst never find 
One who will love and servo tlue night and day 
With a more single mind. 

Forget me when I die ! The violets 

Above my rest will blossom just as blue. 
Nor miss thy tears ; e'en Nature's self forgets; — 
But while 1 live, bo true ! 


Alice was a chieftain's daughter. 
And though many suitors sought her, 
She so loved Glengaritf's water 

That she let her lovers pine. 

Her eye was beauty's palace, 
And her cheek an ivory chalice. 
Through which the blood of Alice 

Gleamed soft as rosiest wine. 

And her lips like lusmoro blossoms which the 
fairies intertwine, — 

And her heart a golden mine. 

She was gentler and shyer 

Than the light fawn which stood by her. 

And her eyes emit a fire 

Soft and teniler as her soul ; 

Love's dewy light doth drown her. 
And the braided locks that crown her 
Than autumn's trees are browner, 

Wlieu the golden shadows roll 

Through the forests in the evening, when cathe- 
dral turrets toll. 

And the purple sun advanceth to its goal. 

Her cottage was a dwelling 

All regal homes excelling. 

But, ah ! beyond the telling 
Was the beauty round it spread, — 

The wave and sunshine playing, 

Like sisters each arraying, 

Far down the sea-plants swaying 
Upon their coral-bed, 
And laugniil as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's 

When the summer breeze is dead. 

Need we say that Maurice loved her. 
And that no blush reproved her. 
When her throbbing bosom moved her 

To give the heart she gave I 

That by dawn-light and by twilight. 
And, blessed moon, by thy light, — 
When the twinkling stars on high light 

The wanderer o'er the wave, — 

His steps unconscious led him where Glengaritf's 
waters lave 

Each mossy bank and cave. 

The sun his gold is flinging. 

The happy birds are singing, 

And bells are gayly ringing 
Along Glengaritf's sea ; 

Anil crowds in many a galley 

To the happy marriage rally 

Of the maiden of the valley 
And the youth of Ceim-an-eich ; 
Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on 

bended knee, 
A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee. 



Mine eyes he closed, but open left the cell 
Of fancy, my intenial sight, by which 
Abstract, as in a trance, methought I saw. 
Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape 
Still glorious before whom awake I stood ; 
Who, stooping, opened my left side, and took 
From thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm, 
And life-blood streaming fresh ; wide was the 






But suddenly witli flesh filled up and healed : 
The rib he formed and fashioned with his hands ; 
Under his forming hands a creature grew, 
Manlike, but ditierent sex, so lovely fair, 
That what seemed fair in all the world seemed 

Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained 
And in her looks, which from that time infused 
Sweetness into my lieart, unfelt belbre, 
And into all things from her air inspired 
The spirit of love and amorous delight. 
She disappeared, and left me dark ; I waked 
To find hei', or forever to deplore 
Her loss, and other pleasuies all abjure : 
When out of hope, behold her, not far off, 
Such as I saw her in my dream, adorned 
With what all earth or Heaven could bestow 
To make her amiable. On she came, 
Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen, 
And guided by his voice, nor uninformed 
Of nuptial sanctity and maniage rites ; 
Grace was in all her steps. Heaven in her eye, 
lu every gesture dignity and love. 
I, overjoyed, could not forbear aloud : 

"Tins turn hath made amends; thou hast 

Thy words, Creator bounteous and benign, 
Giver of all things fair, but fairest this 
Of all thy gifts, nor enviest. I now see 
Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself 
Before me ; W'oman is her name, of man 
Extracted : for this cause he shall forego 
Father and mother, and to his wife adhere ; 
And they shall be one flesh, one heart, one 

She heard me thus, and though divinely 

Yet innocenci! and virgm modesty. 
Her virtue and the conscience of her worth. 
That would be wooed, and not unsought be won. 
Not obvious, not obtinjsive; but retired, 
The more desirable ; or, to say all, 
Nature herself, though pure of sinful thought, 
Wrouglit in her so, that, seeing me, she turned : 
I followed her ; she what was honor knew. 
And with obsequious majesty approved 
My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower 
1 led her blushing like the morn : all Heaven, 
And happy constellations on that hour 
Shed their selectest influence ; the earth 
Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill ; 
Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs 
Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings 
Flung rose, flung odors from the spicy .shrub. 
Disporting, till the amorous bird of night 
Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star 
On his hill-to]i, to light the bridal lamp. 



Herk have I found at last a home of peace 
To hide me from the woild ; far from its noise. 
To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from 

And linked to human beings by the bond 
Of earthly love, hath yet a loftier aim 
Than perishable joy, and through the calm 
That sleeps amid the mountain solitude. 
Can hear the billows of eternity. 
And hear delighted. . . . 

There are thoughts 
That slumber in the soul, like sweetest sounils 
Amid the harji'sloosestrings, till airs from Heaven 
On earth, at dewy nightfall, visitant, 
Awake the sleeping melody I Such thoughts, 
My gentle Mary, 1 have owed to thee. 
And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul 
With a dear home-toned whisper, — if thy face 
E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light 
From our own cottage-hearth, — Mary ! then 
My overpowered spirit shall recline 
Upon thy inmost heart, till it become. 
Thou sinless seraph, almost worthy thee ! 

John Wilson. 


0, FORMED by Nature, and refined by Art, 
With charms to win, and sense to fix the licart 1 
By thousands sought, ClotUda, canst thou free 
Thy crowd of captives and descend to me. 
Content in shades obscure to waste thy life, 
A hidden beauty and a country wife ? 
0, listen while thy summers are my theme ! 
Ah ! soothe thy partner ui his waking dream ! 
In some small hamlet on the lonely plain, 
Where Thames through meadows rolls his mazy 

Or where high Windsor, thick with greens ar- 
Waves his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade, 
Fancy has figured out our calm retreat ; 
Already round the visionary seat 
Our limes begin to shoot, our flowers to sjjiing. 
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sing. 
Wliere dost thou lie, thou thinly peopled green. 
Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unseen. 
Where sons, contented with their native ground. 
Ne'er traveled farthei than ten furlongs round. 
And the tanned peasant and his ruddy bride 
Were born together, and togetner died, 
AVhere early larks best tell the morning light, 
And only Philomel disturbs the night ' 
Midst gardens here my humble pile shall rise. 
With sweets sun'ounded of ten tliousand dyes ; 






All siivagt> whero th' embrouU>TO(l giiiduns ouil, 
Tho hiumt of cclioes, sliall my womU iisioml ; 
Ami 0, it' Ht'iivon th' iimlntious tlumjtht iip- 

A rill shiiU wiirblo 'fivas tlio gloomy grove, — 
A liltKi rill, o'or (lolilily bnls convi'Voil, 
IJiish down tho stoep, iiiul glitter tlu-ough tho 

Whiit (.'lu'criiig scouts thoso boiiU'ring banks 

oxlmlo ! 
How lovul that lioifor lows fi-om yondor valo ! 
'I"h:it thrash how shrill ! his note so oloar, so high, 
llo (livwns oiu'h feiitlioriHl iiiinstii'l of tJio sky. 
lUiv let me tittee beneiith the (mrpled mom 
The ileep-montheil beiigle nnil tlie sprightly horn, 
t1r luiv the trout with well-dissembleil tlios, 
th' feteh the lluttering (oirtriiige fiviu the skies. 
Nor shiill thy hand disdain to erop the vine, 
Tho downy peach or tlavored neetarine : 
Or rob the beehive of its golden hoanl. 
And bear the unbo\ight luxiirianee to thy Ixmiil. 
Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours, 
While fixiu> thy needln rise tho silken llowere, 
.\nd thou, by turns, to easo my foeblo sight, 
Kesumo tho vobune, and deceive tho night. 
O, when 1 mark thy twinkling eyes oppivst. 
Soft whispering, lei me warn my love to ivst ; 
Thenwateh thee, oharmed, while sleep locks every 

And to sweot Heaven commend thy innocence. 
Tims ivigned our fathei-s o'er the ruml fold. 
Wise, hale, and honest, in the days of old : 
Till courts arose, wheiv snl>stnnce )i)>ys for show. 
And specious joys aiv bo\ight with wal woo. 

Thomas Tickklu 


W.vKK now, my love, awake ; for it is time; 
The ixwy ilorn long since left Titht^u's Ivd, 
All ivady to her silver coach to climb ; 
And rhivbus 'gins to show his glorious head. 
Hark ! now the cheerful biixls do chant their lays. 
And eaivl of Love's pmise. 
The merry lark her matins sings aloft ; 
The thrush ivplies ; the mavis descant plays ; 
The ouzel shrills : the ruddock warbles soft ; 
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent. 
To this day's merriment. 

.\h ! my dear love, why do you sleep thus long. 
When nn-eter weiv Uiat you sliould now awake, 
T' await the coming of your joyous nnike,* 
.Vnd hearken to the bills' love-leariii'd song. 
The dewy leaves among ! 
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing. 
That all the wooila tliem luiswor, luid their echo 


My love is now awake out i€ hor dream. 
And her fair eyes like stai-s that dimmed wei-e 
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly 

Mow bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. 
Come now, ye ilamsels, daughters of delight. 
Help ipiiekly hor to dight ; 
Uut liret oonie, yo fair Hours, which wore begot. 
In .love's sweot iwradise, of Day ami Night ; 
Which do the seasons of the year allot, 
.\iul all. that ever in this world is fair, 
I'o make and still repair ; 
And ye thive handmaids of the fyprian Queon, 
The which do still adorn her beauties' pride. 
Help to adorn my heautil'idest bride ; 
And, as yo hor array, still throw between 
Some graces to be seen ; 
And, as yo use to Venus, to her sing, 
Tho whiles tho woods slinll answer, and your 

echo ring. 

Now is my love all ready forth to come : 
I Let all the virgins therefore well await ; 

.\nd ye, fix'sli boys, that tend upon her gi-oom, 
I l>t»|>aiv yoni-selves, for he is coming stl-aight, 
] Set all your things in seemly good array, 
j Fit for so joyful day, — 

The joyful'st day that over sun did see. 

Fair Sun ! show forth thy favorable ray. 

And let thy lifeful heat not forvont be, 
I For fear of burning her sunshiny face, 

Her beauty to disgrace. 

faiivst I'll vims ! father of the Muse ! 
I If ever 1 did honor thee aright, 
I Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight, 
I Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse. 

But let this day, let this one day be mine : 

Let all the rest be thine. 

Then 1 thy sovereign praises lond will sing, 

That all tho woods shall answer, and tdieir eolis 

Lo ! whero slio comes along with portly jiace. 
Like Phft^be, fixim her chamber of the east. 
Arising fortJi to run her n\ight.v race. 
Clad all in white, that seems a virjjin U'st, 
So well it her beseems, that ye wonhl ween 
Some angel idie had Iwen. 
Her long loose yellow locks, like golden wiiv. 
Sprinkled with ]M>arl, and petirling tlowers atween, 
Do like a golden mantle her attiro ; 
And, being crownM with a garland green. 
Seem like some maiden f|neon. 
Her modest eyes, abaslu''d to Iwhold 
So many gazera as on her do .staiv. 
Upon the lowly ground allix^d aro ; 
Ne daiv lift up her eountemuue too bold 
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, 



MA mil AGE. 



So far fioiii being proud. 
Niitliloss do y<; .still loud her prui.scB sing, 
'I'iiat all the wood» may an.swcr, and your echo 

Tell nie, yo inercliante' daugliter.s, did ye .sue 

So lair a creature in your town Ijei'ore f 

So Hweet, so lovely, and so mild as slie. 

Adorned with beauty's grace, and virtue's store ; 

lli'r goodly eyes like sapiihires shining bright, 

Her loicliead ivory whiti-, 

Jlcr rdieeks like- apiil.-t whieh the «un hath 

Her liiw like cherries chiirming men to liite, 
Her breast like to a bowl of cream unciudded. 

Why stand yc still, ye virgins, in arnaze, 
(J|jon her so to gaze, 

Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing. 
To which the woods di<l answer, and your echo 
ring ? 

l!ut if ye saw tliat which no eyes can Bee, 
'I'll!' inward beauty of her lively sprite, 
(i:irriished with heavenly gifts of high degree, 
M iirli more then would yc wonder at tliat sight, 
And stand astonished like to those which red * 
Mwiusa's niazeful head. 

There <lwells sweet Love, and constatit Chastity, 
Uiisjiotted Faith, and comely Womanhood, 
Regard of Honor, and mild Modesty ; 
Thi'rc Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne. 
And givcth laws alone, 
TIji' which the base atrections do obey. 
And yield their services unto her will ; 
Ne tlionght of things uncomely ever may 
Thereto approach to temjrt her mind to ill. 
Had yi! once seen these her celestial treasures. 
And unrcvealfcd pleasures, 
Tlicn would ye wonder and her praises sing, 
Tliat all the woods should answer, and your echo 

flpi-n llie temple gates unto my love, 

(i|uii iImiij wide that she may enter in, 

And all lie- |iosts adorn as doth behove, 

And all the pillars deck with garlands I rim, 

For to receive this saint with honor ilne, 

Tliat Cometh in to you. 

With trembling ste|is, and humble reverence, 

She Cometh in, before the Almighty's view : 

Of hiT, ye virgins, learn oljedience. 

When so ye come into those holy ]ilaees, 

To humble your proud faces : 

Uring her up to the high altar, that she may 

The sacred ceremonies there jiartiike. 

The which do endless matrimony make ; 

And let the roaring organs loudly jilay 


The praises of the l^ord in lively not<;s; 
'I'he whiles, with hollow throats, 
The chori.stei-s the joyous anthem sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and their echo 

liehold, while slie before the altar stands. 
Hearing the holy priest that to her s])eak«. 
And blessetli her with his two happy haiiils, 
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks. 
And the pure snow with goodly vermeil slain, 
Like crimson dyed in grain ; 
That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remain, 
Forget their service and aljout her (ly. 
Oft peeping in her face, that sci'ms more fair, 
The more they on it stare. 
liut her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground. 
Are governed with goodly modesty, 
'J'liat suH'ers not a look to glance awry. 
Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
Why blush you, love, to give to mi' your hand. 
The pledge of all our band ? 
Sing, ye sweet angels. Alleluia sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 


It 's we two, it 's we two for aye, 
Alltheworld, and wetwo, and Heaven be our stay 1 
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! 
All the world was Adam once, with Kve by liis 

What 's the world, my lass, my love ! — what can 

it do ? 
I am thine, and thou art mine ; life is sweet and 

If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by ; 
For wo two have gotten leave, and once more will 


Like a laverock in the lilt, smg, O bonny bild.- ! 
It's we two, it 's we two, happy side by side. 
Take a kiss from me, thy man ; now the song 

begins : 
"All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart 


When the darker ilays come, and no sun will 

Thou shalt dry my tears. Loss, and I '11 dry thine. 
It 's we two, it 's we two, while the worid 's away. 
Sitting by the golden sheaves on onrwedding day. 

Jl AN I.'J 







In a valloy far away 

With my ilaim blian astor, 
Short would be the sumiuei-day, 

Ever loving nioro and mow ; 
Winter days would all grow long, 

With the light her heni't would [lour, 
With her kisses and her soug, 
And hor loving niait go le6r. 
Fond is Maire blian ast6r, 
Fair is Maire bhan astiSr, 
Sweet as ripple on the sliore, 
Sings my Maire bhan astor. 

0, hor sire is very proud, 

And hor mother cold as stono ; 
But hor brother bravely vowed 

She should be my bride alone ; 
For lie knew 1 lovoil her well. 

And he knew she loved mo too. 
So he sought their pride to iiuoll. 
But 't was all in vain to sue. 
True is Maire bhnn astor, 
Tried is Maire bhan astor. 
Had I wings 1 'd never soar 
From my Maire bhan astor. 

There are lands where manly toil 

Surely reaps the erop it sows. 
Glorious woods anil teeming soil, 

Where the broad Missouri flows ; 
Through the trees tlio smoke shall rise. 

From our hearth with mait go leor. 
There shall shine the happy eyes 
or my Maire bhan astor. 

Mild is Maire bhan astor. 
Mine is Mairo bhan astor, 
Saints will watch about the door 
Of my Maire bhan astur. 



The maid, and thereby hangs n tale. 
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 

Could ever yet produce : 
No grape that 's kindly ripe could be 
So round, so plump, .so soft as she. 

Nor half so full of juice. 

Her finger was so small, the ring 
Would not stay on v.'iiich tuey did bring, 
1 1 was too wide a pock ; 


And, to say truth, —for out it nnist, — 

It looked like the great collar — just — 

About our young colt's nock. 

Iter feet beneath her petticoat. 
Like little mice, stole in and out. 

As if they feared the light ; 
But 0, she dances such a way ! 
No sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a sight. 

Her chocks so rare a white was on. 
No nuikes comparison ; 

Who sees them is undone ; 
For streaks of red were mingled there. 
Such as are on a Oath'rine piair. 

The side that 's next the sun. 

Her lips were red ; and one was thin, 
Compareil to that was next her chin. 

Some bee had stung it newly ; 
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
I durst no niurc upon them gaze, 

Than on the sun in July. 

Her mouth so small, when she does speak. 
Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break. 

That they might jiassage get ; 
But she so handled still the matter, 
They came as good as ours, or better. 

And arc nut spent a whit. 

siK John Suckling. 


To the sound of timbrels sweet 
Jloving slow our solemn feet. 
We have boiue thee on the road 
To the virgin's blest abode ; 
With thy yellow torches gleaming. 
And thy scarlet mantle streaming. 
And the canopy above 
Swaying as we slowly move. 

Thou hast left the joyous feast, 
And the mirth and wine have ceased 
And now wo sot thee down before 
The jealously unclosing door. 
That tlic favored youth admits 
'Where the \'oil{id virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear. 
Waiting our soft tread to hear. 
And the music's brisker din 
At the bridegroom's entering in, 
Entering in, a welcome guest. 
To the chamber of his rest. 







CHoiius OF maidi;ns. 
Now the jocund song is thine, 
Bride of David's kingly line ; 
How thy dove-like bosom trenililetli, 
And thy shrouded eye rescnibleth 
Violets, when the dews of eve 
A luoist and tremulous glitter leave ! 

On the bashful sealed lid. 
Close within the bride-veil hid. 
Motionless thou sitt'st and mute ; 
Save that at the soft salute 
Of ea(di entering maiden friend, 
Thou dost rise and softly bend. 

Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! 
The door unfolds, — 't is he ! 't is he ! 
Thus we lilt our lamjis to meet him. 
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him. 
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting, 
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting. 

IIBNKV Hart Milm 


rRf)M " HUMAN I.lFIi,' 

Thkn Ijcfore All they stand, — the holy vow 
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now, 
liind her as his. Across the tlireshold led. 
And every teai- kissed olf as soon as shed. 
His house she enters, — there to lie a light, 
Shining within, when all without is niglit ; 
A guaidian angel o'er his life presiding. 
Doubling his pleasures and his cares diviiling. 
Winning him back when mingling in the throng 
Hack from a woi-ld we love, alas ! too long. 
To fireside happiness, to hours of ease, 
fSlcst with that chami, the certainty to jilease. 
How oft her eyes read liis ; her gentle mind 
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined ; 
Still subject, — ever on the watch to boiTow 
Mirth of his miilh and .sorrow of his sorrow ! 
The soul of music .slumbers in the shell. 
Till waked and kindled by the master's .spell. 
And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly — 

A thousand iiieludies unheard before ! 

SAMUHi. Rogers. 


To bear, to nurse, to rear. 
To watch, and then to lose : 

To see my briglit ones disappear, 
Drawn up like morning dews ; • 

To bear, to nurse, to rear. 
To watch, and then to lose : 

This have I done when God drew near 
Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

And with thy lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed. 

Will let no longer smart. — 
To hear, to heed, to wed. 

This while thou didst 1 smiled. 
For now it was not God who said, 

" Mother, give ME thy child." 

fond, O fool, and blind. 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But when a man like grace would find, 

My soul put by her fears. 
foiid, fool, and blind, 

God guards in happier s|)heres ; 
That man will guard where he did biml 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed. 

Fair lot that maidens choose, 
Thy mother's tendcrest wonls are said. 

Thy face no more she views ; 
Thy mother's lot, my dear, 

She doth in naught accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love — and then to lose. 


O, THK banks of the Lee, the banks of tlie I,ec, 
And love in a cottage for Mary and nie ! 
There 's not in the laud a lovelier tide. 
And I'msurethat there 'snooncsofairasmy bride. 

She 's modest and meek. 

There 's a down on her cheek, 

And her skin is as sleek 
As a butterfly's wing ; 

Then her step would scarce show 

On the fresh-fallen snow, 

And her whisper is low, 

But as clear a.s the spring. 
0, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, 
And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! 
I know not how love is happy el.scwhere, 
I know not how any but lovers are there. 

0, so green is the grass, so clear is the stream, 
So mild is the mist and so rich is the beam. 
That beauty sliould never to other lands roam. 
But make on the banks of our river its home ! 

Wlien, dripping with dew, 

The roses peep through, 

'T is to look in at vou 




Thoy im« growing so fiist ; 
Wliil.' ll\o soiMit of (lu> llowois 
Musi ln> luvii\loil lV>r liom-s, 
"r is |uiinvil in siii'h sliowors 

Whi-n my Mary jjoi's (Mst. 


0, till' luinks of tlm Loo, tlio Imuka of tlio Loo, 
Anil lovo in i\ oottivgo for Mmy luul nio ! 
0, Miu'v for nio, Mury for mo. 
Ana 't is litHo I W sij-li for tlio banks of llio l.o. 



SuK is a winsouio woo Uiinj;, 
Sho is a lianilsonio woo tiling, 
Slio is a Inmnio woo tJiinj;, 
'I'his swoot woo wifo o' niino, 

1 novor SiW a faiixu', 

1 novov lo'od a iloiuw. 

Anil noisl n>y hoart I 'U woar liov. 

For foar my jowol lino. 

Sho is a winsomo woo thing, 
Slio is a hanilson\o woo tiling, 
Sho is a iHMiiiio woo thing, 
'I'liis swoot woo wifo o' u>ino. 

'ri\o warUi's wmok wo sliaiv o't, 
'riio wai-stlo and tlio oaiv o't : 
\Vi"lior I'll hlytholy hoar it. 
And think n\Y lot divino. 


My l.ovo, 1 Un\ii i\o foar that thou shouldst dio: 
Allvit I ask no faiivr lifo than this. 
Whoso nu\nlHMiug-cliH-k is still thy gx-ntlo kiss, 
Whilo 'Hnioaud roaoowithhrtuds«nlooki>d llv,— 
Yot oaiv 1 not whoiv in Ktornity 
Wo livo and lovo, wvll knowing that thoiv is 
No Iwokwuixl stop for tlu>so who fool Iho bliss 
t^f Faith as thoir nuwt lofty yoarnings high : 
l.ovo hath so (Miriliod my Wing's ooi-o, 
Mosoonis I soaiYoly should 1h> starllod, ovon, 
To lind, somo n\orn, that thon hadst giino lH>fon> ; 
Siiioo, with thy lovo. this knowloilgo too wa.« 

M'hioh iv>oh oaliu day doth stituigthou inoiv and 

That thoy who lovo aiv but ono stop fivm lloavon. 

I iWNNOT think that tlion sluwldst pjiss aw-.iy. 
Whoso lifo to niino is au otornal law. 

A piooo of natnro that oan liavo no (law, 
.\ now and oorlaiu snnriso ovory day ; 
lint, if thou art to 1h> anothor ray 
.VlKiut tho Sun of l.ifo. and art to livo 
I'V'O fnnn all of thoo that was fugitivo. 
Tho dobt of l.ovo I will inoiv fully imy. 
Not with tho thought of thoo so high, 
r>nt mthor iiiisoil to bo a noblor man. 
And mow divino in my humanity. 
As knowing that tho waiting oyos whioli soan 
My lifo aiv liglitod by a pm\>r boing, 
.\nd ask n>ook, oalni-bixnvod doods, with it agroo- 

I THot'ollT our lovo (it full, but I did orr ; 
.Toy's wroiith droopod o'or niino oyos ; 1 oonUl not 

That sorrow in our happy world nuist Ih> 
l.ovo's dooiH'st spokivsman and intorpivtor. 
Ii\it. as a nuilhor fools lior ohild lirst stir 
Vndor hor hoart. so folt 1 instantly 
Poop in my soul anothor bond to thoo 
Thrill with that lifo wo ssiw doiwrt fron\ hor : 

II mothor of our an,gt>l ohihl I twioo doar ! 
Uoath knits as woll as piivts, and still. 1 wis, 
llor tondor nidianoo shall infold ns horo, 
F.von as tho light, borno up by inwaiil bliss. 
Thivads tho void glooms of sjiaoo without a foiu\ 
To print on fartliost stars hov pitying 

lAMUS Kl'SSliLL l.iVU.l 1., 


l") KAir.Ksr of orivition, last and In'st 
llf all (IihI's works, oivaturo in whon> oxoollod 
Whatovor oan to sight or thought Iv formod. 
Holy, divino. g<wd. amiablo, or swoi>t ! 
Uow art thon last, how on a suddon lost. 
Uofaoixl. dolloworx'd. and now to doatli dovoto ! 
Kathor. how hast thou yioldol to transgivss 
Tho stviot I'orbividanoo. how to violate 
Tho saoivd fruit forbiddou ! Somo oursW fraud 






Of enemy hatli >x;giiilei] tlioe, y';t unknown, 
Ami idi: wild tine liatli i-uim:'!, lor with tli';0 
Ceitiiiii rrjy inKolijtion i» to die. 
Ilow ean 1 live without tliee, liow I'oref/o 
'I'liy KWeet eoiiverw;, ari'l love lo ileaily joitie'I, 
To live again in thew: wiM woiAh lor loin ( 
.SlioiiM Owl creati: another Kve, ari'l 1 
Another lih alfonl, yet Iohk of thee 
Would never from niy heart ; no, no, I feel 
The link of nature draw nre ; lleKh of llech, 
lione of nry Ikjiii; thou art,tand from thy «tat« 
Mine never >iliall Ije parKA, hlinit or v/tK. 

However, I with th'je have i'lXcA rny lot, 
Ci;rtain to uniler(^o like d'wni ; if death 
Contort with thee, death in Ui nie a« life ; 
So forcible within my heart 1 feel 
The Ijond of nature draw me Ui my owrr. 
My own in thee, for what thou art i.t mine ; 
Oui' BUtft cannot fj*; f«:vered, we are one, 
<>ii(: (leiih ; U> him Did: were to loic.' jiiywdf 


" Iir;i why do you go?" «aid the lady, while Ujth 

sate under the yew, 
And her eye« were alive in their depth, a« the 

kniken beneath the wa-blue. 

" lieearwe I fear you," he anHwered ; — " Ix^eauac 

you are far Utn fair. 
And able U) Btrangle my wjuI in a inesth of your 

gold-Cjlor'^l hair." 

"0 that," she mwl, "in no retiwm ! Hiieh knots 

are fjrjiekly undone. 
And too rnueh ln.aiity, I re/;kon, in nothing; but 

t<jo mueh Hun. " 

"Vet farewell ivt," he answered; — "the uun- 
stroke '» fat.;d at timex, 

1 value your hiixlxind. Lord Walt^jr, whose gal- 
lop ringo Btill from the limen." 

"O, that," she Haid, "in no reason. Vou >:mell 
a rotte through a fence ; 

If two should Hmell it, wljat matter? who grum- 
bles, and where 's the j/retenw; ? " 

"But I," he replied, "have promijc^d .-mother, 

when love was fr-e<;, 
To love lier alone, alone, who alone and afar loves 


["But you," he i.|,ii<'i, - ii.ive :i oautditcr, a 
young little child, who wao laid 
In your lap to \x: pure ; Hti I hsive you : the 
angels would make me afraid." 

"O, that," she said, "is no r<ason. The angels 

ki;*;p out of the way ; 
And Oora, the child, olwervirs nothing, although 

you should pleawj me and stay." 

At which he nrnt up in his anger, — "Why, now, 

you no longer are fair ! 
Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and 

liatiiful, I swear." 

At which she laughwl out in her scorn, — " Tlrese 

men ! 0, these men ovenii'X;, 
Who are shoekcl if a wjlor not virtuous is frankly 

put on by a vi/;c." 

Her ey<-s bhi»!d ufK^n hirn — "And ;/'/«/ Vou 

bring us your vices mi near 
That we t>mell them ! you think in our prewn'Mi 

a thought 't would defame us to hear ! 

"What ri::mm ha/l you, and what right, I p- 
[Ksil to your K^iiil from my life, — 

To find nre t'<o fair as a wonrarr ? Why, sir, I anr 
pure, and a wifir, 

" Is the day-star tvi fair up aJ/ove you? It biinis 

you not. Dare you im|ily 
I brushed you more ch/W: than the star do<»t, 

when Walt'ir- lia/1 w:t /ne as high ? 

" If a man fin'ls a woman Uxi fair, he means sim- 
ply iulapt.'-d too nruch 

To us'js irnlawful and fatal. The praise I — shall 
I thank you for such ? 

"To<)fair? — irot unlesi you misrus/; un 1 and surely 

if, once in a whih-, 
You attain t/i it, straightway you call us no longer 

t/Ki fair, but Umj vile. 

" A moment, — I pray your att/.-ntion ! — I have 

a fKtor word in rny head 
I must utter, though womanly custom would vt 

it down V>f;tt/;r unsaid, 

" Vou grew, sir, pale U> imfK;rtinence, one; when 
I showwl you a ring. 

You kissed my fan wh'-rr I dropjx;'! it. No mat- 
ter ! I Ve Woken the thing. 

"Why, that," she said, "is no reason. I^ove '« "You did me the honor, ffcrhaps, to be rnrivA 
always frc<;, I anr told, at my side now and then 

Will you vow to h<: safe from the hea/lache on In the seriwis, — a vice, I have heard, which ix 
Tae«<Iay, and think it will hold ?" common to beajstJi and some men, 

la — 






" Love 's a virtue for heroes ! — as white as the 
snow on high hills, 

And immortal as every great soul is that strug- 
gles, endures, and fulfills. 

' ' I love my Walter profoundly, — you, Maude, 

though you faltered a week, 
For the sake of . . . what was it ? an eyebrow ? 

or, less still, a mole on a cheek ? 

" And since, when all 's said, you 're too noble to 

stoop to the frivolous cant 
About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, 

betray, and supplant, 

" I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er 

you might dream or avow 
By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me 

than you have now. 

"There! Look me full in the face! — in the 

face. Understand, if you can, 
That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as 

the palm of a man. 

"Drop Ms hand, you insult him. Avoid us for 
fear we should cost you a scar, — 

You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for 
the women we are. 

"You wronged me : but then I considered . . . 

there 's Walter ! And so at the end, 
I vowed that he should not be nmlcted, by me, 

in the hand of a friend. 

" Have I hurt you indeed ? We are quits then. 

Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine ! 
Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me 

to ask him to dine." 

ELiz.\BETH Barrett browning. 



V,VT happy they, the happiest of their kind, 
Wliom gentler stars unite, and in one fate 
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings 

'T is not the coarser tie of human laws, 
Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind. 
That binds their peace, but harmony itself, 
Attuning all their passions into love ; 
Wliere friendship full-exerts her softest power. 
Perfect esteem enlivened by desire 
Ineffable, and sympathy of soul ; 
Thought meeting thought, and will preventing 

With boundless confidence : for naught but lova 
Can answer love, and render bliss secure. 
Meantime a smiling offspring rises round, 
And mingles both their graces. By degrees, 
The human blossom blows ; and every day, 
Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm, 
The father's lustre and the mother's bloom. 
Then infant reason gi'ows apace, and calls 
For the kind hand of an assiduous care. 
Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought. 
To teach the young idea how to shoot, 
To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, 
To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix 
The generous purpose in the glowing breast. 
0, speak the joy ! ye whom the sudden tear 
Surprises often, while you look around, 
And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss, 
All various Nature pressing on the heart ; 
An elegant sufficiency, content. 
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, 
Ease and alternate labor, useful life, 
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven. 
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love ; 
And thus their moments fly. The Seasons thus, 
As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, 
Still find them happy ; and consenting Spring 
Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads : 
Till evening comes at last, serene and mild ; 
When, after the long vernal day of life, 
Enamored more, a.s more remembrance swells 
With many a proof of recollected love, 
Together down they sink in social sleep ; 
Together freed, their gentle spirits fly 
To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign. 
James Thomson. 




" It was our wedding-day 

A month ago," dear heart, I hear you say. 

If months, or years, or ages since have passed, 

I know not : I have ceased to question Time. 

I only know that once there pealed a chime 

Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast, 

And all stood back, and none my right denied. 

And forth we walked : the world was free and wide 

Before us. Since that day 

1 count my life : the Past is washed away. 

It was no dream, that vow : 

It was the voice that woke me from a dream, — 

A happy dream, I think : but 1 am waking now, 

And drink the splendor of a sun supreme 

That turns the mist of former tears to gold. 

Within these arms I hold 

The fleeting promise, chased so long in vain : 

Ah, weary bird ! thou wilt not fly again : 






Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no more de- 
part, — 
Thy nest is huilded in my heart ! 

I was the crescent ; thou 

Tlie silver phantom of the perfect sjihere. 

Held in its bosom : in one glory now 

Our lives united shine, and many a year — 

Not the sweet moon of bridal only — we 

One luster, ever at the full, shall be : 

One pure and rounded light, one planet whole. 

One life developed, one completed soul ! 

For I in thee, and thou in me. 

Unite our cloven halves of destiny. 

God knew his chosen time. 
He bade me slowly ripen to my prime. 
And from my boughs withheld the promised fruit. 
Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root. 
Secure, Love ! secure 

Thy blessing is : 1 have thee day and night : 
Thou art become my blood, my life, my light : 
God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt endure. 
Bayard Taylor. 



The day returns, my bosom burns. 

The blissful day we twa did meet ; 
Though winter wild in tempest toiled, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads tlie tide. 

And crosses o'er the sultry line, — 
Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes. 

Heaven gave me more ; it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give, — 
"Wliile joys above my mind can move. 

For thee and thee alone I live ; 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part. 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss, — it lireaks ray heart. 
Robert Burns. 


0, MY love 's like the steadfast sun. 
Or streams that deepen as they run ; 
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 
Nor moments between sighs and tears. 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain. 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that tiows 
To sober joys and soften woes. 
Can make my heart or fancy flee. 
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 

In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 

Fair, gentle as when first 1 sued. 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 

As when, beneath Arbigland tree. 

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 

Or lingered mid the falling dew, 

When looks were fond and words were' few. 

Though I see smiling at thy feet 
Five sons, and ae fair daughter sweet, 
And time, and care, and birthtime woes 
Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy 
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
Whate'er charms me in tale or song. 
When words descend like dcw.s, unsought, 
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thouglit. 
And fancy in her heaven flies free. 
They come, my love, they come from thee. 

0, when more thought we gave, of old, 
To silver, than some give to gold, 
'T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
How we should deck our humble bower ; 
'T was sweet to pull, in hope, witli thee, 
The. golden fruit of fortune's tree ; 
And sweeter still to choose and twine 
A garland for that brow of thine, — 
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow, and woods glow gieen. 

At times there come, as come there ought. 
Grave moments of sedater thouglit. 
When fortune frowns, nor lends oiu- night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower, 
Shines like a rainbow through the shower. 
0, then I see, while seated nigh, 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye, 
And proud resolve, and purpose meek. 
Speak of thee more than words can speak. 
1 think this wedded wife of mine. 
The best of aU that 's not divine. 

Allan Cunn: 


She stood in the harvest-field at noon. 
And sang aloud for the joy of living. 

She said : "'T is the sun that I drink like wine, 
To my heart this gladness giving." 

Rank upon rank the wheat fell slain ; 

The reapers ceased. " 'T is sure the splendor 
Of sloping sunset light that thrills 

JIv breast with a bliss so tender. " 







Up and up the blazing lulls 

Climbed the night from the misty meadows. 
" Can they be stars, or living eyes 

That bond on me from the shadows ? " 

" Greeting ! " " And may you speak, indeed ? " 
All in the dark her sense grew clearer ; 

Slir knew that she had, fur coiiiiKiiiy, 
All day an angel near Iut. 

" M;iy you toll us of the life divine, 
To us unknown, to angels given ? " 

"Ciiunt me your earthly joys, and I 
May teach you those of heaven. " 

" They say the pleasures of earth are vain ; 

Delusions all, to lure from duty ; 
liut while Cod hangs his bow in the rain, 

Can 1 helji my joy in beauty ? 

" .\iid while he (luickens the air with song. 
My breaths witli aeeiit, my fruits with Uavor, 

Will he, ilear angel, count as sin 
My life in smmd and savor '! 

"See, at our feet the glow-worm shines, 

Lo ! in the east a star arises ; 
Aiul thought may climb fi'oni worm to world 

Forever through fresh surprises : 

"And thought is joy. . . . And, hark! in the 

Music, and merry stc]is pursuing ; 
They leap in the dance, — a suul in my blood 

( 'ricvs out. Awake, bo doing ! 

" Action is joy ; or power at play. 
Or power at work in world or emprises : 

Action is life ; part from the deed. 
More from the doing rises." 

" And arc these all ? " She Hushed in the dark. 

"These are not all. I have a lover ; 
At sound of his voice, .at touch of his hand, 

Tlie cup of my life runs over. 

" Cncc, unknowing, we looked and neared. 
And doubted, and noared, and rested never, 

Till life seized life, as flame meets flame, 
To escape no more forever. 

" Lover and husband ; then was love 
The wine of my life, all life enhancing : 

Now 't is my bread, too needful and sweet 
To be kept for feast-day chancing. 

" I have a child." .She seemed to change ; 
The deep content of some brooding creature 

Looked from her eyes. "0, sweet and strange! 
Angel, be thou my teacher : 

" When He made us one in a babe, 

Was it for joy, or sorest proving? 
For now 1 fear no heaven could win 

Our hearts from earthly loving. 

" I have a friend. Ilowso 1 err, 

I see her uplifting love bend o'er me ; 

Howso 1 climb to my best, 1 know 
Her foot will be there before mo. 

"Howso parted, wo must bo nigh, 
Held by old years of every weather ; 

The best new love would be less than ours 
Who have lived our lives together. 

' ' Now, lest forever I fail to see 

Right skies, through clouds so bright and ten- 
Show me true joy." The angel's smile 

Lit all the night with splendor. 

" Save that to Love and Learn and Do 
In wondrous measure to us is given ; 

Save that we see the face of God, 

You have named the joys of heaven." 



WiiKN the black-lettered list to the gods was pre- 
(The list of what fate for each mortal intends). 
At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 
Andslippcdiu three blessings, — \vife, children, 
and friends. 

In v.ain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, 
For justiae divine could not compass its enils. 

Thosehemcofman'spenanco he swore wasdi'featcil. 
For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children, 
and friends. 

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested. 
The fmul, ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends ; 

But the heart issues bills which are lu'vcrprotestcil. 
When drawn on the firm of — wife, children, 
and friends. 

The day-springof youth, still unclouded by sorrow. 
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 

But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow 
No warmth from the smile of — wife, children, 
and friends. 






ilow many summers, lovi>, 

Have I been tliiiie < 
How many days, tliou dove, 

Hast thou been mine ? 
Time, like the winf^eil wind 

When 't bends the flowers, 
Hath left no mark behind, 

To count the hours ! 

Some weight of thought, though loath. 

On thee he leaves ; 
Some lines of care I'ound both 

Perhaps he weaves ; 
Some fears, — a soft regret 

For joys scarce known ; 
Sweet looks we half forget ; — 

All else is tlown ! 

Ah ! — With what thankless heart 

I mourn and sing ! 
Look, where our children start, 

Like sudden spring ! 
With tongues all sweet and low 

Like pleasant rhyme, 
They tell how much I owe 

To thee and time ! 



If tliou wert by my side, my love. 
How fast would evening fail 

In green Bengala's palmy grove. 
Listening the nightingale ! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side. 

My babies at my knee, 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray. 
When, on our deck reclined, 

In careless ease my limbs I lay 
And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil tr)', 
The lingering noon to cheer. 

But miss thy kind, approving eye. 
Thy meek, attentive ear. 

But when at mom and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. 

My course be onward still. 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads. 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates 

Nor mild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 

Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee ! 

Reginald IIciiBR. 



I nnoroilT her home, my bonny bride, 

Just fifty years ago ; 
Her eyes were bright. 
Her step was light, 

Her voice was .sweet and low. 

In April was our wedding-day — 

The maiden month, you know. 

Of tears and smiles, 

And willful wiles. 

And flowers that spring from snow. 

My love cast down her dear, dark eyes, 
As if she fain would hide 

From my fond sight 

Her own delight. 

Half shy, yet happy, bride. 

But blushes told the tale, instead, 

As plain as words could speak. 

In dainty red, 

That overspread 

My darling's dainty cheek. 

For twice six years and more I watched 
Her fairer grow each day ; 

My babes were blest 

LTpon her breast. 

And she was pure as they. 

— s 





And then an angel touched my eyes, 
And turned my day to night, 

That fading charms 

Or time's alarms 

Might never vex my sight. 

Thus sitting in the dark 1 see 

My darling as of yore, — 

AVith blushing face 

And winsome grace. 

Unchanged, forevermore. 

Full fifty years of young and fair ! 

To her I pledge my vow 
Whose spring-time grace 
And April face 

Have lasted until now. 

Louise Chandler moulton. 


0, LAY thy hand in mine, dear ! 

We 're growing old ; 
But Time hath brought no sign, dear, 

That hearts gi'ow cold. 
'T is long, long since our new love 

JIade life divine ; 
But age enricheth true love. 

Like noble wine. 

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, 

And take thy rest ; 
Mine arms around thee twine, dear. 

And make thy nest. 
A many cares are pressing 

On this dear head ; 
But Sorrow's hands in blessing 

Are surely laid. 

0, lean thy life on mine, dear ! 

'T will shelter thee. 
Thon wert a winsome vine, dear. 

On my young tree : 
And so, till boughs are leafless. 

And songbirds flown. 
We '11 twine, then lay us, griefless. 

Together down. 

Gerald massev. 


Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife ; ah, 

summers not a few, 
Since I put it on your finger first, have passed 

o'er me and you ; 

And, love, what changes we have seen, — what 

cares and pleasures, too, — 
Since you became my own dear wife, when this 

old ring was new ! 

0, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of 

my life. 
When, thanks to God, your low, sweet "Yes" 

made you my loving wife ! 
Your heart will say the same, I know ; that 

day 's as dear to you, — 
That day that made me yours, dear wife, when 

this old ring was new. 

How well do I remember now your yoimg sweet 

face that day ! 
How fair you were, how dear you were, my 

tongue could hardly say ; 
Nor how I doated on you ; 0, how proud 1 was 

of you ! 
But did I love you more than now, when this 

old ring was new ? 

No — no ! no fairer were you then than at this 

hour to me ; 
And, dear as life to me this day, how could you 

dearer be ? 
As sweet your face might be that day as now it 

is, 't is true ; 
But did I know your heart as well when this ol<l 

ring was new ? 

partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what 

grief is there 
For me you would not bravely face, with me 

you would not share ? 
0, what a weary want had every day, if wanting 

Wanting the love that God made mine when 

this old ring was new ! 

Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife, — young 

voices that are here ; 
Young faces round our fire that make their 

mother's yet more dear ; 
Young loving hearts your care each day makes 

yet more like to you. 
More like the loving heart made mine when this 

old ring was new. 

And, blessed be God ! all he has given are with 

us yet ; around 
Our table every precious life lent to us still is 

Though cares we 'vc known, with hopeful hearts 

the worst we 've struggled through ; 
Blessed be his name for all his lore since this 

old ring was new ! 




The past is dear, its sweetness still our memo- 
ries treasure yet ; 

The griefs we 've borne, together borne, we would 
not now forget. 

Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto 
heart stUl tnie, 

"We '11 share as we have shared all else since this 
old ring was new. 

And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daugh- 
ters to grow old. 

We know his goodness will not let your heart 
or mine gi'ow cold. 

Your aged eyes will see in mine all tliey 've still 
shown to you, 

And mine in yours all they have seen since this 
old ling was new. 

And 0, when death shall come at last to bid me 

to my rest, 
Jlay 1 die looking in those eyes, and re.sting on 

that breast ; 
0, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear 

sight of you. 
Of those fond eyes, — fond as they were when 

this old ling was new ! 

William Co.v Bennett. 


John Ander.son, my jo, John, 

When we were first acijuent. 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We 've had wi' ane anither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But band in hand we '11 go : 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



There is a dungeon in whose dim drear light 
What do I gaze on ' Nothing : look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight, — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain, — 

An old man and a female young and fair. 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar : but what doth she there. 
With her unmantled neck, and bo.som white and 
bare ? 

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young 1 itV. 
Where mi the heart and from the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet ' 1 know not — I'ain 
w'as Eve's. 

But here youth offers to old age the food. 
The milk of his own gift : it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No ! he sliall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the lire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises 

Than Egypt's river ; — from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 
holds no such tide. 

The starry fable of the milky-way 

Has not thy stoiy's purity ; it is 

A constellation of a sweeter ray. 

And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 

Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 

Where sparkle distant worlds : — 0, holiest 

nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 
Lord Byron. 


Backward, turn backward, Time, in you 

Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore. 
Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep : — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Backward, flow backward, tide of the years ! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
Take tliem, and give me my childhood again '. 







I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — 
Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
Mother, mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has gi'own gi'een. 
Blossomed, and faded our faces between, 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence so lon^ and so deep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, • — rock me to sleep ! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown. 
No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
No other worship abides and endures, — 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours : 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; — 
Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted \vith gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song : 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace. 
With your light lashes just sweeping my face. 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — I'oek me to sleep ! 


(FLOKtNcE Percy). 


My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 

Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 

Go where 1 will, to me thou art the same, — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 

There yet are two things in my destiny, — 

A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 

The first were nothing, — had I still the last. 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 

But other claims and other ties thou hast. 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 

A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 

Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore, — 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

If my inheritanoe of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 

Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen, 

I have sustained my share of worldly shocks. 

The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 

I have been cunning in mine overthrow. 

The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 

My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being gave me that which marred 

The gift, — a fate, or will, that walked astray : 
And I at times have found the struggle hard. 

And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay : 
But now I fain would for a time sui-vivc. 
If but to see what next can well aiiive. 

Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet 1 am not old ; 

And when I look on this, the petty spray 

Of my own years of trouble, which have rolled 

Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
Something — I know not what — docs still up- 

A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, 

Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 

Within me, — or perhaps of cold despair. 

Brought on when ills habitually i-ecur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or pui-er air, 

(For even to this may change of soul refer. 
And with light ai-mor we may learn to bear, ) 

Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 

The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 

In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and 
Which do remember me of where I dw'elt 

Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books. 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 

My heart w-ith recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments 1 could think 1 see 
Some living thing to love, — but none like thee. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admu'e 

Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 

But something worthier do such scenes inspire. 

Here to be lonely is not desolate. 
For much I view which I could most desire. 


o 5 

5 5 

5 ^ R 






Anil, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 

The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 

There may be others which I less may show ; 
I am not of the plaintivi; mood, and yet 

1 feel an ebb in my philosophy. 

And the tide rising in my altered eye. 

I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, 

By the old Hall which may be mine no more. 

Leman's is fair ? but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore ; 

Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, 
Ere thai or thnu, can fade these eyes before ; 

Though, like all things which I have loved, they 

Resigned forever, or divided far. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 

Of Nature that with which she will comply, — 

It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the i|uiet of her sky. 

To see her gentle face without a mask, 
Ami never gaze on it with apathy. 

She was my early friend, and now shall be 

My sister, — till I look again on thee. 

1 can reduce all feelings but this one ; 

.\nd that I woidd not ; for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wheri^in my life begun. 

The earliest, — even the only paths for me, — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 

I had been better than I now can he ; 
The passions which have toi-n me would have 

slept : 
/ had not suffered, and </j«ii hadst not wept. 

With false Ambition what had I to do ? 

Little with Love, and least of all with Fame ; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 

And made me all which they can make, — aname. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 

Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over ; I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 

I h.Tve outlived myself by many a day : 

Having survived so many things that were ; 

My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for 1 liad the share 

Of life which might Iiave tilh-d a century, 

Before its fourth in time had passed me by. 

And for the remnant which may be to come, 
I nm content ; and for the past I feel 

Not thankleas, — for within the crowded sum 
Of straggles, happine,ss at times would !steal, 

And for the present, I would not benumb 
My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 

That with all this I still can look around, 

And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

For tliee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
1 know myself secure, as thou in mine : 

We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 

It is the .same, together or apart, 
From life's commencement to its slow decline 

We are intwined, — let death come slow or fast. 

The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 

Ci.iN<; to thy home ! if there the meanest .shed 
Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head. 
And some poor plot, with vegetables stored. 
Be all that Heaven allots thee for thy board, — 
I'nsavory bread, and herbs that scattered grow 
Wild on the river brink or mountain brow, 
Yet e'en this cheerless mansion shall provide 
More heart's repose tlian all the world beside. 

From the (Jrtck of I.F.OMUAS. 

by KoUliRT ULANO. 



Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam. 
Be it ever so humble there 's no place like home ! 
A charm from the skies .seems to hallow us thi^re, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with 

Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 

There 's no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain : 
O, give me my lowly thatched cottsige again ! 
The liirds singing gayly that came at my call ; — 
Give me them, ^and the peace of mind dearer 
than all ! 
Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 
There 's no place like home ! 

JOHN Howard Payne. 

Mine he a cot beside the hill ; 
A beehive's hum shall soothe my car ; 
A willowy brook that turns a mill, 
With many a fall shall linger near. 







The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my iyied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village-church among the trees, 
Where first our marriage- vows were given, 
With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

Samuel Rogers. 


Haity the man, whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
Whose flocks supply him with attire : 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade. 
In winter, fire. 

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 
Hours, days, and years slide soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind. 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
Together mixed ; sweet recreation. 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 
Thus mdamented let me die ; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. Pope. 


Dark is the night, and fitful and drearily 

Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea : 
Little care I, as here I sit cheerily. 

Wife at my side and my baby on knee. 
King, king, crown me the king : 
Home is the kingdom, and Love is the kin^ 

Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces. 
Dearer and dearer as onward we go, 

Forces the shadow behind us, and places 

Brightness around us with warmth in tlie glov 

King, king, crown me the king : 

Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! 

Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory. 
Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the 
Telling of trust and content the sweet story, 
Lifting the shadows that over us roll. 
King, king, crown me the king : 
Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! 

Richer than miser with perishing treasure, 

Served with a service no conquest could bring ; 
Happy with fortune that words cannot measure. 
Light-hearted I on the liearthstone can sing. 
King, king, crown me the king : 
Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king. 
William Rankin Dur^ea. 


What is it fades and flickers in the fire. 

Mutters and sighs, and yields reluctant breath, 

As if in the red embers some desire. 

Some word prophetic burned, defjing death ? 

Lords of the forest, stalwart oak and pine. 
Lie down for us in flames of martjTdom : 

A human, household warmth, their death- fires 
shine ; 
Yet fragrant with high memories they come. 

Bringing the mountain-winds that in their boughs 
Sang of the torrent, and the plashy edge 

Of storm-swept lakes ; anil echoes that arouse 
The eagles from a splintered eyrie ledge ; 

And breath of violets sweet about their roots ; 

And earthy odors of the moss and fern ; 
And hum of rivulets ; smell of ripening fruits ; 

And green leaves that to gold andcrimson turn. 

What clear Septembers fade out in a spark ! 

^Vhat rare Octobers drop with every coal ! 
Within these costly ashes, dumb and dark, 

Are hid spring's budding hope, and summer's 

Pictures far lovelier smoulder in the fire, 

Visions of friends who walked among these trees, 

Whose presence, like the free air, could inspire 
A winged life and boundless sympathies. 

Eyes with a glow like that in the brown beech. 
When sunset through its autumn beauty shines ; 

Or the blue gentian's look of silent speech. 
To heaven appealing as earth's light declines 




177 ~f 


Voices and steps forever fled away 

From the familiar glens, the haunted hills, — 
Most pitiful and strange it is to stay 

Without you in a world your lost love fills. 

Do you forget us, — under Eden trees, 
Or iu full sunshine on the hills of God, — 

Who miss you from the shadow and the breeze, 
And tints and perfumes of the woodland sod ? 

Dear for your sake the fireside where we sit 
Watching these sad, bright pictures come and 
go ; 

That waning years are with your memory lit, 
Is the one lonely comfort that we know. 

Is it all memory ? Lo, these forest-boughs 
Burst on the hearth into fresh leaf and liloom ; 

Wait a vague, far-off sweetness through the house. 
And give close walls the hillside's breathing- 

A second life, more spiritual than the first. 
They fin<l, — a life won only out of death. 

sainted souls, within you still is nursed 
For us a flame not fed by mortal breath ! 

Unseen, ye bring to us, who love and wait, 

Wafts from the heavenly hills, immortal air ; 
No flood can quench your hearts' wannth, or 
abate ; 
Ye are our gladness, liere and everywhere. 

Lccv larcom. 


Kixo Henry. God ! methinks, it were a 
happy life. 
To be no better than a homely swain ; 
To sit upon a hill, as I do now. 
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point. 
Thereby to see the minutes how they run ; 
How many make the hour full complete ; 
How many hours bring about the day ; 
How many days wUl finish up the year ; 
How many years a mortal man may live. 
When this is known, then to divide the times, — 
So many hours must I tend my flock ; 
So many hours must I take my rest ; 
So many hours must I contemplate ; 
So many hours must I sport myself ; 
So many days my ewes have been with young ; 
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; 
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece : 
Sominutes, hours, days, weeks, months, andyears. 
Passed over to the end they were created. 
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 
Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! 

Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade 
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep. 
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy 
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery ? 



Martial, the things that do attain 
The happy life be these, I find, ■ — 

The riches left, not got with pain ; 
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind. 

The equal friend ; no gnidge, no strife ; 

No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
Without disease, the healthful life ; 

The household of continuance ; 

The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 

True wisdom joined with sirapleness ; 
The night discharged of all care. 

Where wine the wit may not oppress ; 

The faithful wife, without debate ; 

Such .sleeps as may beguile the night ; 
Contented with thine own estate, 

Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 

Lord Surrey. 


Dear Chloe, whUe the crowd. 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. 

In folly's maze advance ; 
Though singularity and pride 
Be called our choice, we '11 step aside. 

Nor join the giddy dance. 

From the gay world we '11 oft retire 
To our own family and fire. 

Where love our hours employs ; 
No noisy neighbor enters here. 
No intermeddling stranger near, 

To spoil our heartfelt joys. 

If solid happiness we prize. 
Within our breast this jewel liec, 

And they are fools who roam ; 
The world hath nothing to bestow, — 
From our own selves our bliss must flow. 

And that dear hut, our home. 

Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
But then how little do we need. 

For nature's calls are few ; 
In this the art of living lies, 
To want no more than may suffice. 

And make that little do. 


r 178 




We '11 therefore relish with content 
Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 

Nor aim beyond our power ; 
For, if our stocli be very small, 
'T is prudence to enjoy it all, 

Nor lose the present hour. 

To be resigned when ills betide. 
Patient when favors are denied, 

And pleased with favors given, — 
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, 
This is that incense of tlie heart, 

Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 



GOOD painter, tell me true, 

Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of things that you never saw ? 

Ay ? Well, here is an order for you. 

Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — 
Tlie picture must not be over-bright, — 
Yet all in the golden and gracious light 

Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. 

Alway and alway, night and morn. 

Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 
Lying between them, not quite sere, 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom. 
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room 

Under their tassels, — cattle near. 
Biting shorter the short green grass. 
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras. 
With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound !) — 

These, and the house where I was born. 
Low and little, and black and old. 
With children, many as it can hold, 
All at the windows, open wide, — 
Heads and shoulders clear outside. 
And fair young faces all ablush : 

Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 

Koses crowding the selfsame way. 
Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, 
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 

Looked down upon, you must paint for me ; 

0, if I only could make you see 

Tlie clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 

Tlie sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. 

The woman's soul, and the angel's face. 
That are beaming on me all the while ! — 
I need not speak these foolish words : 
Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 

She is my mother : you will agree 

That all the rest may be thrown away. 

Two little urchins at her knee 
You must paiut, sir : one like me, — 
The other with a clearer brow, 

And the light of his adventurous eyes 

Flashing with boldest enterprise : 
At ten years old he went to sea, — 

God knoweth if he be living now, — 

He sailed in the good ship Commodore, — 
Nobody ever crossed her track 
To bring us news, and she never came back. 

Ah, 't is twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 

Witli my great-hearted brother on her deck ; 

I watched him till he shrank to a speck. 
And his face was toward me all the way. 

Bright his luiir was, a golden brown. 

The time we stood at our mother's knee : 

That beauteous head, if it did go down. 
Carried sunshine into the sea ! 

Out in the fields one summer night 

We were together, half afraid 

Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade 
Of the high hills, stretching so stillandfar, — 
Loitering till after the low little light 

Of the candle shone through the open door. 
And over the haystack's pointed top. 
All of a tremMe, and ready to drop. 

The first half-hour, the great yellow star, 

Tliat we, with staring, ignorant eyes. 
Had often and often watched to see 

Propped and held in its place in the skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree. 

Which close in the edgeof our flax-field grew, — 
I Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
! Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, 
' From which it tenderly shook the dew 
Over our heads, when we came to play 
In its handbreadth of sliadow, day after day : — 

Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore 
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, — 
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs. 
Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
The berries we gave her she would n't cat. 
But cried and cried, till we held her bill. 
So slim and shining, to keep her still. 

At last we stood at our mother's knee. 

Do you think, sir, if you try. 

You can paint the look of a lie ? 

If you can, pray have the grace 

To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me : 

I think 't was solely mine, indeed : 







But that 's no matter, — paint it so ; 

The eyes of our mother — take good heed — 
Looking not on the nestl'ul of eggs, 
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs. 
But straight through our faces down to our lies. 
And 0, with such injured, reproachful surprise ! 
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, 

as though 
A shai-p blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know. 
That you on the canvas are to repeat 
Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 
Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree, — 
The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at her 
kuee : 
But, 0, that look of reproachful woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I 'II shout, 
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 


THOU of home the guardian Lar, 

And when our earth hath wandered far 

Into the cold, and deep snow covers 

The walks of our New England lovers. 

Their sweet secluded evening-star ! 

'T was with thy rays the English Muse 

Ripened her mild domestic hues ; 

'T was by thy flicker that she conned 

The fireside wisdom that enrings 

With light from heaven familiar things ; 

By thee she found the homely faith 

In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th, 

When Death, extinguishing his torch, 

('hopes for the latch-string in the porch ; 

The love that wanders not beyond 

His earliest nest, but sits and sings 

While children smooth his patient wings. 

Therefore with thee I love to read 

( lur brave old poets ; at thy touch how stirs 

Life in the withered words ! how swdft recede 

Time's shadows ! and how glows again 

Tlirough its dead mass the incandescent verse. 

As when upon the anvils of the brain 

It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought 

By the fast-throbbing hammers of the [loet's 

thought ! 
Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, 
The aspirations unattained. 
The rhythms so rathe and delicate, 
Thej' bent and strained 
And broke, beneath the sombre weight 
Of any airiest mortal word. 

As who would say, " 'T is those, I ween, 
Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean 
That win the laurel " ; 

While the gay snow-storm, held aloof. 

To softest outline rounds the roof. 

Or the rude North with baflled strain 

Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane ! 

Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne 

By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems 

Gifted upon her natal morn 

By him with fire, by her with dreams, 

Nicotia, dearer to the Muse 

Thau all the gi'apes' bewildering juice, 

We worship, unforbid of thee ; 

And, as her incense floats and curls 

In airy spires and wayward whirls. 

Or poises on its tremulous stalk 

A flower of frailest revery, 

So \vinds and loiters, idly free. 

The cun'ent of unguided talk. 

Now laughter-rippled, and now caiight 

In smooth dark pools of deeper thought. 

Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, 

A sweetly unobtrusive third : 

For thou hast magic beyond wine, 

To unlock natures each to each ; 

The unspoken thought thou canst divine ; 

Thou fiUesf the pauses of the speech 

With whispers that to dream-land reach, 

And frozen fancy-springs unchain 

In Arctic outskirts of the brain. 

Sun of all inmost confidences ! 

To thy rays doth the heart unclose 

Its formal caly.K of pretenses, 

That close against rude day's olfenses, 

And open its shy mitluight rose. 


BfT where to find that happiest spot below. 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease : 
The naked negro, panting at the line. 
Boasts of his golden sands and iialmy wine. 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
And thanks his gods for all the good they ga\-p. 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
His first, best countiy ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An ei[ual portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As different good, by art or nature given. 
To different nations makes their bles.sing even. 








TiiK stately Homes of Kngland, 

How Iwixutiful tliey stand ! 

Amidst their tall ancestral tri'i-s, 

O'lT all the pleasant land ; 

Tlie deer across their greensward bound 

Tiirough shade and sunny gleam. 

And the swan glides past them with the sound 

I If some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night, 

What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light. 

There woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childish tale is told ; 

Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 

Is laid tlie holy iinietuess 

That breathes from Sabbath hours! 

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn ; 

All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The cottage Homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 

Tlicy are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet-fanes. 

Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Kach from its nook of leaves ; 

And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the biul beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair Homes of England ! 

Long, long in hut and hall, 

Jlay hearts of native proof be reared 

To guanl each hallowed wall ! 

And green forever be the groves, 

.\ud bright the flowery sod, 

AVhere lirst the child's glad spirit loves 

Its countrv and its God. 



A r.oon wife rose from her bed one morn. 

And thought, with a nervous dread. 
Of the piles of clothes to bo washed, and more 

Than a dozen mouths to be fed. 
"There 's the meals to get for the men in the field. 

And the children to nx away 
To school, and the milk to be skimmed and 
churned ; 

And all to be done this day." 

It had rained in the night, and all the wood 

Was wet as it could be ; 
There were puddings and pics to hake, besides 

A loaf of cake for tea. 
And the day was hot, and her aching head 

Throbbed wearily as slio said, 
" If maidens but knew what good teirfs know, 

They would not be in haste to iced.'" 

•Mciini.', vvliat do you think I told Ben Brown?" 

Called the farnu'r from the well ; 
And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow. 

And his eyes half-bashfully tell : 
" It was this," he said, and coming near 

He smiled, and stooping down. 
Kissed her cheek —"'twas this, that you were 
the best 

And the dearest wife in town I " 

The farmer went back to the field, and the wife, 

In a smiling, absent way. 
Sang snatches of tender little songs 

She 'd not sung for many a day. 
.\nd the pain in her head was gone, and the 

Were white as the foam of the sc:i : 
Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet. 

And as golden as it could be. 

"Just think," the children all called in a breath, 

" Tom Wood has run off to sea I 
He would n't, I know, if he 'd only had 

As happy a home as we." 
The night came down, and the good wife smiled 

To hei'self, as she softly said : 
"'T is so sweet to labor for those we love, — 

It 's not strange that maids tril! vrd .'" 


It was a gallant sailor man. 

Had just come from sea. 
And, as I passed him in the town, 

He sang " Ahoy ! " to me. 
I stopped, and saw I knew the man, 

Had known him from a boy; 
And so I answered, sailor-like, 

".\vast !" to his "Ahoyl" 
I made a song for him one day, — 

His ship was then in sight, — 
"The little anchor on the left. 

The great one on the right." 

I gave his hand a hearty grip. 

" So you are back again ' 
They say you have been pirating 

T'pon the Spanish Main : 







Or was it some rich Iniliaman 

You robbed of all lier jicarls ' 
Of course you have been breaking; hearts 

Of poor Kanaka girls ! " 
"Wherever I have been," he said, 

" I kept my ship in sight, — 
' ITie little anchor on the left, 

Tlio great one on the right.' " 

" I heard last night that you were in ; 

1 walked the wharves to-day. 
But saw no ship that looked like yours. 

Where does the good shiji lay? 
I want to go on board of her." 

"And so you shall," said he ; 
" But there are many things to ilo 

When one comes home from sea. 
You know the song you made for ine ? 

I sing it morn and night, — 
' The little anchor on the left, 

The great one on the right.' " 

" But how 's your wife and little one ?" 

" i-'ome home with me," he said. 
" Go on, go on : I follow you." 

I followed where lie led. 
He had a pleasant little house ; 

The door was open wide, 
And at the door the dearest face, — 

A dearer one inside. 
He hugged his wife and child ; he sang, — 

His spirits were so light, — 
"The little anchor on the left, 

The great one on the right." 

T was supper-time, and we sat down, — 

The sailor's wife and child, 
And he and I : he looked at them. 

And looked at me, and .smiled. 
" I think of this when I am tossed 

T^pon the stormy foam. 
And, though a thousand leagues away. 

Am anchored here at Iiome." 
Then, giving each a kiss, he said, 

" I see, in dreams at night, 
This little anchor on my left, 

This great one on my right." 




When the lessons and tasks are all ended. 
And the school for the day is dismissed, 

The little ones gather around me. 
To bid me good night and be kissed ; 

Oh, the little white arms that encircle 
My neck in their tender embrace ! 

Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 
Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 

And when they are gone 1 sit dreaming 

Of my childhood, too lovely to last ; 
Of joy that my heart will remember 

When it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
Ere the world and its wickedness made nie 

A partner of sorrow and sin. 
When the glory of God was about me, 

And the glory of gladness within. 

All my heart grows as weak a.s a woman's, 

And the fountains of feeling will flow, 
Wlien I tliink of the paths steep and stony. 

Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 
Of the njountains of sin hanging o'er them, 

Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild ; 
Oh ! there 's nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child ! 

They are idols of hearts and of households ; 

They are angels of God in disguise ; 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses. 

His glory still gleams in their eyes ; 
Those truants fiom home and from heaven, — 

They have made me more manly and mild ; 
And I know now how Jesus could liken 

The kingdom of God to a child ! 

I ask not a life for the dear ones. 

All radiant, as others have done. 
But that life may have just enough shadow 

To temper the glare of the sun ; 
I would pray God to guard them from evil. 

But my prayer would bound back to myself; 
Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. 

But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banished the rule and the rod ; 
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge. 

They have taught me the goodness of God. 
iMy heait Is the dungeon of darkness. 

Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; 
My frown is sufficient correction ; 

My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old house in the Autumn, 

To traverse its threshold no more : 
Ah ! how shall I sigh for the dear ones 

That meet me each morn at the door ! 
I shall miss the " good nights " and the ki-sses. 

And the gush of their innocent glee. 
The group on its green, and the flowers 

That are brought every moniing to me. 






I shall miss them at morn and at even, 

Their song in the school and the street ; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tread of their delicate feet. 
When tlie lessons of life are all ended. 

And death says, " The school is dismissed ! " 
May the little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good night and be kissed ! 



0, don't be sorrowful, darling ! 

Now, don't be sorrowful, pray ; 
For, taking the year together, my dear, 

There is n't more night than day. 
It 's rainy weather, my loved one ; 

Time's wheels they heavily run ; 
But taking the year together, ray dear. 

There is n't more cloud than sun. 

We 're old folks now, companion, — 

Our heads they are growing gray ; 
But taking the year all round, my dear, 

You always will find the May. 
We 've had our May, my darling. 

And our roses, long ago ; 
And the time of the year is come, my dear. 

For the long dark nights, and tlie snow. 

But God is God, my faithful. 

Of night as well as of day ; 
And we feel and know that we can go 

Wherever he leads the way. 
Ay, God of night, my darling ! 

Of the night of death so grim ; 
And the gate that from life leads out, good wife, 

Is tlie gate that leads to Him. 



We are all here, 

Father, mother. 

Sister, brother, 
All who hold each other dear. 
Each chair is filled ; we 're all at home ! 
To-night let no cold stranger come. 
It is not often thus around 
(->ur old familiar hearth we 're found. 
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot ; 
For once be every care forgot ; 
Let gentle peace assert her power, . 
And kind affection rule the hour. 

We 're all — all here. 

We 're not all here ! 
Some are away, — the dead ones dear. 

Who thronged with us this ancient hearth. 
And gave the hour to guileless mirth. 
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand. 
Looked in, and thinned our little band ; 
Some like a night-flash passed away. 
And some sank lingering day by day ; 
The ciuiet gi-aveyard, — some lie there, — 
And cruel ocean has his share. 
We 're not all here. 

We are all here ! 
Even they, — the dead, — though dead, so dear, — 
Fond memory, to her duty true. 
Brings back their faded forms to view. 
How lifelike, through the mist of years, 
Each well-remembered face appears ! 
We see them, as in times long past ; 
From each to each kind looks are cast ; 
We hear their words, their smQes Ijehold ; 
They 're round us, as they were of old. 

We are all here. 

We are all here. 

Father, mother. 

Sister, brother. 
You that I love with love so dear. 
This may not long of us be said ; 
Soon must we join the gathered dead, 
And by the hearth we now sit round 
Some other circle will be found. 
0, then, that wisdom may we know, 
Which yields a life of peace below ; 
So, in the world to follow this. 
May each repeat in words of bliss, 

AVe 're all — all here ! 


Touch us gently. Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently, — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream ! 
Humble voyagers are we. 
Husband, wife, and children three, — 
(One is lost, — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead !) 

Touch us gently. Time ! 

We 've not proud nor soaring wings ; 
Our ambition, our content. 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we. 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea. 
Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 

Bryan waller Procter 








" F,\REWELL ! farewell !" is often heard 

From the lips of those who part : 
'T is a whispered tone, — 't is a gentle word, 

But it springs not from the heart. 
It may serve for the lover's closing lay, 

To be sung 'neath a summer sky ; 
But give to me the lips that say 

The honest words, "Good bye !" 

"Adieu ! adieu ! " may greet the ear. 

In the guise of courtly speech : 
But when we leave the kind and dear, 

'T is not what the soul would teach. 
AVliene'er we grasp the hands of those 

We would have forever nigh. 
The flame of Friendship bursts and glows 

In the warm, frank words, "Good bye." 

The mother, sending forth her child 

To meet with cares and strife, 
Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears 

For the loved one's future life. 
No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives 

Within her choking sigh, 
But the deepest sob of anguish gives, 

"God bless thee, boy ! Good bye ! " 

Go, watch the pale and dying one. 

When the glance has lost its beam ; 
When the brow is cold as the marble stone, 

And the world a passing dream : 
And the latest pressure of the hand, 

The look of the closing eye. 
Yield what the heart must understand, 

A long, a last Good bye. 



As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side. 

Two towers of sail, at dawn of day, 
Are scarce long leagues apart descried. 

When fell the night, up sprang the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied ; 

Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those whom, year by year unchanged. 

Brief absence joined anew, to feel. 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged'? 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered ; 

Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed 
Or wist what firet with dawn appeared. 

To veer, how vain '. On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! — in light, in darkness too ! 

Through winds and tides one compass guides : 
To that and your own selves be true. 

But blithe breeze ! and great seas ! 

Though ne'er that earliest parting past. 
On your wide plain they join again, 

Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought, — 
One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 

bounding breeze, rushing seas, 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 


Ae fond kiss and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I '11 pledge thee ; 
Warring sighs and groans 1 '11 wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I '11 ne'er blame my partial fancy — 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 






But to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-WTUng tears I '11 pledge thee ; 
Warring sighs and groans 1 '11 wage thee. 

Robert Burns. 

In holy night we made the vow ; 

And the same lamp which long before 
Had seen our early passion grow 

Was witness to the faith we swore. 

Did I not swear to love her ever ; 

And have I ever dared to rove ? 
Did she not own a rival never 

Should shake her faith, or steal her love ? 

Yet now she says those words were air. 
Those vows were written all in water, 

And by the lamp that saw her swear 
Has yielded to the first that sought her. 

From the Greek of MELEAGER, 
by JOHN Herman Merivale, 

t— - 


The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left 

Shall never part from mine. 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams. 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak: 
O, what can idle words avail, 

Unless the heart could speak ? 

By day or niglit, in weal or woe, 

That heart, no longer free. 

Must bear the love it cannot show, 

And silent, ache for thee. 

Lord Byron. 


Zii>7) jLLOu eras ayaTrui.* 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, 0, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast. 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
ZJiTj IJLOU (rds ayairw. 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Wooed by each iEgean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
TiCjf} IJ.OV ads dyaTTuj. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
ZujTj [jLou ads dyairCi. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone. 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
Zwt; jLioD ads dyairCi. 



The heath this night must be my bed. 
The bracken curtain for my head. 
My lullaby the warder's tread. 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, 
I dare not think upon thy vow. 
And all it promised me, Mary. 

• Zol tnou, las agapo. — My life. I love thee. 






No foml regret must Nomian know ; 

When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, 

His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like an'ow free, Mary. 

A time will come with feeling fraught ; 
For, if I fall in liattle fought, 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
And if returned from conquered foes, 
How blithely will the evening close, 
How sweet the linnet sing, 

To my young bride and me, Mary ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 


Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, 

That from the nunnerie 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde. 

To warre and amies 1 llee. 

True, a new mistresse now I chase, — 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith imbrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 
As you, too, should adore ; 

I could not love thee, deare, so much. 
Loved I not honor more. 

Richard Lovel 


Adieu, adieu ! our dream of love 
Was far too sweet to linger long ; 

Such hopes may bloom in bowers above, 
But here they mock the fond and young. 

We met in hope, we part in tears ! 

Yet 0, 't is sadly sweet to know 
That life, in all its future years, 

Can reach us with no heavier blow ? 

Tlie hour is come, the spell is past ; 

Far, far from thee, my only love. 
Youth's earliest hope, and manhood's last. 

My darkened spirit turns to rove. 

Adieu, adieu ! 0, dull and dread 
Sinks on the ear that parting knell ! 

Hope and the dreams of love lie dead, — 
To them and thee, farewell, farewell ! 



All in the Downs the fleet was moored. 
The streamers waving in the wind, 

When black-eyed Susan came aboard ; 
" 0, where shall 1 my true-love find ? 

Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true 

If my sweet William sails among the crew." 

William, who high upon the yard 
Rocked with the billow to and fro. 

Soon OS her well-known voice he heard 
He sighed, and cast his eyes below : 

The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands. 

And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 
Shuts close his pinions to his Ijreast 

If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, 
And drops at once into her nest ; — 

The noblest captain in the British fleet 

Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 

" Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 

My TOWS shall ever true remain ; 
Let me kiss off' that falling tear ; 

We only part to meet again. 
Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

" Believe not what the landmen say, 
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : 

They '11 tell thee sailors, when away. 
In every port a mistress find : 

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 

For thou art pre.sent wheresoe'er I go. 

" If to fair India's coast we sail. 
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. 

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 

Thus ever}' beauteous object that I view 

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

"Though battle call me from thy arms. 

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms 

William shall to his dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. 
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 
The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 

No longer must she stay aboard ; 

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 

Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; 

"Adieu ! " she cries ; and waved her lilv liand. 






O, no mil yi'l, my Unc, 

'V\w iiiglU is <lnik iimi viisl ; 
Tin' wliili' imiou is liiil in liov lioiivou above. 

Ami till' wavos rliiiili liijjh uml lust, 
0, kiss iiu', kiss 1110, oiu'i' ngaiii. 

Lost lliy kiss sliouKl Iv Uio last. 
l> kiss nil' I'lv wi' iMi'l ; 
(!n>\v cKisoi- to my lituU't ; 
My lioai'l is waiimn' suivly than tlio Imsoiii of tlio 
(t joy ! O liliss oriiUs.<ios ! 

My lu'ail of lioai'ts art thou, 
ronu', l>jitlu> mo with thy kissos, 

Mv cyi'liils ami my hi'ow. 
Hark ' how tho wiUl rain his,sivs, 

.\ml Itu' Uuui si'« niai's holow. 

Thy lunirl boats thniiijjh thy msy limbs, 

Sojshully iloth it stir; 
Thiiio oyo in ilivps of jjladnoss swims. 

IhavobathoiUhoo with tho ploasaiit myrrh; 
Thy looks aro ilriiniinj; Kilm ; 
Thou shalt not wamlor hoiioo to-nijjht, 

I 'U stay t.hoo with my kisso.s. 
To-night tho iMaring brino 

Will ivml thy gvihlon tivssos ; 
Tho oooan with tho niorivw light 
Will bo both blnoaml oalm ; 
And tho billow will ombraoo thoo with a kiss as 
soft as niino. 

No Woslorn oiloi's wandor 

On tho blaok and moiining soi\, 
And whou thou art dead, l.oaudor, 

My soul must follow thoo ! 
0, gvi not yot, my lovo. 

Thy voioo is swoot and low ; 
Tlio dwi> salt wavo Invaks in alnivo 

Thoso niarblo stoiw bolow. I 

Tho tiinvt -stall's aix> wot ] 

That loa>l into tho soa, I 

1 .oandor ! go not yot ! | 

Tlio plivasant stai-s havo sot : 
l>, i;o not. jjvi not yot, 

t.>r 1 will follow thoo. 



Shk says, " Tho oook oixiws, — hark ! 
Ho says, " No ! still 't is dark." 

Sho says, "Tho dawn gmw's bright," 
Ho says, "0 no, uiy Light." 

Sho says, "Stand up and say, 
Cots not the hoiwoii gray t" 

111' siiys. " Tlio morning stai' 
Climbs llio horizon's bar." 

Sho.says, " Tlioii .|iii,K ; 
Alas ! you now iiiusl start ; 

" Ihit givo tho oook a blow 
Who did bogin our woo ! " 

I'tum llip ChliiCM-. I.y Will u 


.h'l.iicr. Wilt Ihoubogiuio / it is not vol iioar 

day : 
It was tho nightingalo, and not tho hirk. 
That pion'od tho foarful hollow of thino oar ; 
Nightly .sho sings on yon iiomogriinato-troo : 
Holiovo luo, lovo, it was tho nightingalo. 

HoMHo. It was tho lark, tho lioiald of tho 

No nightingalo ; look, lovo, what oiivioiis stivaks 
IV liioo tho sovoriiig oloiids in yoiidor oast : 
Night's oaiidlos aro biirnt out, and jooiiiul day 
Stands tiptoo on tho misty mountain-tops. 
1 must bo gono and livo, or stay and dio. 
.h'l.uu'. Yon light is not davliglit. I know 

it. 1 : 
It is somo niotoor, that tho sun oxhalos, 
To bo to thoo this night a toivh-boaror, 
And light thoo on thy way to Mantua : 
Thorofoiv stay yot, — thou lUHnl'st not to bo gono. 
KoMFo. Lot mo K' ta'on, lot ino bo put to 

doath ; 
1 am oontoiit, so thou wilt havo it so. 
1 '11 say, yon gray is not tho morning's oyo, 
'T is but tlio i«lo ix'tlox of t^ynlhia's bixiw ; 
Nor that is not tho lark, whoso iiotos do bwit 
Tho vanity honvou so liigh abovo our hoiids : 
1 havo inoiv oaiv to stay than will to go ; — 
Coino. doath, and wolcomo ! .luliot wills it so. — 
How is 't, my soul ! lot 's talk, it is not day. 

■h'l.iKT. It is, it is; hio honoo, bo gono, away! 
If is tho lark that sings so out of tuno, 
Stiiiining hai-sh disoonls, and nnplonsiiig sliiujs, 
Somo say, tho lark makes swoot division ; 
This doth not so, for she dividoth us ; 
Some sjiy, the lark and loatll^d toad ohaiigo 

eyes : 
0, now 1 would thoy had oluuigod voices too ! 
Sinoo arm fiMiii arm that voioo doth ns alVray, 
Hunting thoo honoo, with hnnts-up to tho day. 
O, now bo g\ino ; nioiv light and light it grows, 
RoMKO, Moni light and light, — nioiv dark 

and dark our woes. 
•Tui.tKT. Thou, window, lot day in, and lot 

life out. 






Uo.MKO. l''(il<!Wi:ll, fjircwr;! 1 ! OHi; k iult, Illl'l I 'II 
iIi;m<:i;iiiI. (iMHceiuh.) 

.Ii.'i.ij'.r. Art tlioii gum; ho ? my lov; I my 
lonl 1 my friciiil ! 
I iniiHl, lii!nr rioMi tlici! cviiry flay i' tin: li'jiir, 
For it] n mliinti! tlii;re iiii: mimy iliiyH ; 
0, liy l,lii« iMjuiil I hIiuII lid mucli in yi;iirH, 
I'^ri- I iigiiiii liuliold iny lioiiico. 

I'iOMito, KarcH'(;ll ! I will omil, iioo|ij)i>rtiiiiit.y 
'I' xmy w<iiv<;y my gidistiiixii, lovd, to tlidi:, 
fi'l.lK)'. O, Uiiiik'ot tlioii wi! (tliall nvcr mr-^t. 

a;{aiii ? 
ItOMKO. \ <loul)t it not ; aii<i all tlniM; woin 
aljall Hirrvi; 
Kor Hwi;<;t iVw.i>\irivM iri our time t*! cokk:. 


An cmjity nky, a worM of Ijcathor, 
i'liipli! Ill' (iiX0()Vi:, yiillow of \>yinim : 

Wr: two among tlidm w/uling togi:tlii!r, 
Hliaking out lioiicy, Irua'ling |;i;(fiimri. 

'>ow(Ih of liijBH are giildy witli (■.\iivi:i- ; 

Crowds of gr<ut(ilio(i|)i;rn (iki|) at one I'lct ; 
f.'roW'lH of larkn at inatino liang ovi;r, 

Ttianking ttic I,oril for a life ho nwi-.nt. 

Kami in IikikI, wliili; thn dim jworwl ovct, 
VVi! ))ij>i«<l till; gr.omon tliat youn;{lin({H|>riiig, 

.Sw<;|it ]«u;U itH ninlici), Hitiootln;'! itn i;lov<ir, 
Ami naiil, " l^;t iih follow it w<;Hti;ring." 

A ila|(|il<!<l nky, a world of mciwIowH ; 

Chiding abovi! im tin; lj|iu:k rookd II y, 
Forward, ljai:kwaril : lo, tlii;ir dark »lia/lowPi 

Klit on till; IdoHHoming t/i|(i;Htry • 

Klil on till; lx;i:k - - (or lii;r long gnwH |iarli;tli, 
Ah liair from a maid'H liriglit ly^H lilown l/iuk ; 

And lo, tin; mm liki; a loTi;r dait^tli 

IIIh llatti;ring nmili; on Inr wayward tr(u:k ! 

Hing on I wi; ning in tin; glorioiiH wiaitlnrr, 
Till oin; iiU\iH over tlni tiny iilrand. 

Ho narrow, in Hootli, tliat Htill N/gi;llii;r 
On i;itlii;r lirink wi; go liand in liand. 

Till; l<i;ok grown wider, llie liandn iniiHt Hi;ver. 

On citlier margin, our HongH all done. 
We move ajiiirt, while nlie xingetli ever, 

Taking tlie eonrni; of tin; »too|iing Hiin. 

lie |)iayH, "Conn; over" - I may not follow ; 

I ery, *' liidnrn " ■ - l;iit lie eannol eome ; 
We Hjieak, we laiigli, Init witli voieen hollow ; 

Our l,ai,d^. ■.,!,■ l':,uff\uir. oiii lieiirlH are mind,. 

Fliiiilietli the riwj with her |iiir)>le favor, 
Oloweth the eleft with her golden ring, 

'Twixt the two brown l)iitt';rilieH waver, 
Lightly wjttle, and Hleejiily Hwing. 

We two v/alk till the piiriile dieth. 

And Hliort dry gr;iHB under foot in brown ; 

liiit one little Htreak at a dititaniy; lieth 
Green, like a riblion, Uj jirank the down. 

Over the gra«H we hU-.jiju'A iihUi it, 

And Ood he knowetli how blithe we v/cre ! 

Never a voii;*; to bid nit ewhew it ; 

lley the green riMxiu that itln/wed mi fair ! 

Iley the grwjn ribWi ! we knwiled l»i*ide it. 
We (Birte'l the gnut(M« dewy and (ihe<;n ; 

l;ro|i ovCT droji there MU^ed and nlidi;/l 
A tiny 1/right l<i«k that trickliMl l<(;twi«;n. 

A breathing ;,igli — a nigh for annwer ; 

A little talking of outward tliingn : 
The eareleHH Uek in a merry daiieer, 

Keejiing Hweet time Ui the air nlie ningn, 

A little j»ain when the Wik grown wider — 
"CroHH Ui me wiw, for her waveletH Hwell " ; 

" I may not i-.rimn" —■ and the voiee tn-Muh her 
Faintly reaeheth, though hee-li^-l well. 

N'o lui/ikward [/ath ; ah ! no returning ; 
,S'o Hiniimii eroitHing that ritijde'n (low ; 
"Come U> me now, for the weHt m biiniing ; 
I Come ere it darkenx," - - "Ah, no ! ah, no '." 

Then erie» of (>ain, and annn oiitreaehin;/ 
I The beek grows wider and Hwift and i|ie|i ; 
I'aanionat/! word« an of one lnrw;e/;liiiig 

The loud \xj:V. <lrov/i,». them ■ v.e walk and 


Tinkle, tinkle, Kwwdly it Hung U> an, 
I.iglit waH our talk an of fVwiry 1x;IIh — 

yH&ry w(alding-fK;llH ffiintly mug Vi an, 
Down in their fortiinat<; jrarallel*. 

A yellow moon in Hj/lendor, 
A tired 'jui*n with her nUiU opiireKw;/!, 

t/iw by rintheH and tmoM-Kr-Mn «tooj;ing, 
J,i<* nhe fif<ft on the wave* at re»it. 






The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 

Her eiirtli will weep her some dowy tears ; 
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, 

And goeth stilly as soul that tears. 

We two widk on in our gi'assy jilaees, 
On either marge of the moonlit flood, 

With tlie moon's own sadness in our faces, 
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 

A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 

A little piping of leaf-hid binls ; 
A llutter of wings, a fitful stirring, 

A cloud to the eastwaitl snowy as curds. 

Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered ; 

Kound valleys like nests all ferny-lined ; 
Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered. 

Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver. 
When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide ; 

A Hashing edge for the milk-white river, 
The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 

Broad and white, and polished as silver. 
On she goes tmder fruit-laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver. 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 

Glitters the dew, and shines the river ; 

Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 
But two are walking apart forever. 

And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 

A liraver swell, a swifter sliding ; 

The river hasteth, her banks recede ; 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lily, and drown the reed. 

Stately prows are rising and bowing — 
(Shouts of mariner's winnow the air) — 

And level sands for banks endowing 

The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 

While, my heart ! as white sails shiver. 

And crowds are passing, and banks stre 
How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, 

That moving speck on the far-off side ! 

Farther, fartlier — I see it — know it — 
My eyes brim over, it melts away : 

Only my heart to my heart shall .show it. 
As I walk desolate day by day. 

And yet 1 know past all doubting, truly, — 
A knowledge greater than grief can ilim — 

I know, as he loved, he will love mo duly — 
Yea, better — e'en better than I love him ; 

And as I walk by the vast calm river, 

The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever 

Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me. 
Jean Ingelow, 


I LOVE thee, love thee, Giulio ! 

Some call me cold, and some demure, 
And if thou hast ever guessed that so 

I love thee — well, — the proof was poor, 

And no one could be sure. 

Before thy song (with shifted rliymes 

To suit my name) did 1 undo 
The Persian > If it moved sometimes, 

Thou hast not seen a hand push through 

A foolish flower or two. 

My mother listening to my sleep 

Heard nothing but a sigh at night, — 

The short sigh rippling on the deep. 

When hearts run out of breath and sight 
Of men, to God's clear light. 

When others named thee, — thought thy brows 
Were straight, thy smile was tender, — " Hera 

He comes between the vineyard-rows ! " — 
] said not "Ay," — nor waited, dear. 
To feel thee step too near. 

I left such things to bolder girls, 

Olivia or Clotilda. Nay, 
When that Clotilda through her curls 

Held both thine eyes in hers one day, 

I marveled, let me say. 

I could not try the woman's trick : 
Between us straightway fell the blush 

Which kept mo separate, blind, and sick. 
-•V wind came with thee in a flush. 
As blown through Horeb's bush. 

But now that Italy invokes 

Her young men to go forth and chase 

The foe or perish, — nothing chokes 
I 5Iy voice, or drives me from the plai-e : 
I I look thee in the face. 







I love thee ! it is understood, 
Confest : I do not shrink or start. 

Xo blushes : all my body's blood 
Has gone to grcaten this poor heart, 
That, loving, we may pait. 

Oar Italy invokes the youth 

To die if need be. .Still there 's room, 
Though earth Ls strained with dead, in truth : 

Since twice the lilies were in bloom 

They have not grudged a tomb. 

And many a plighted maid and wife 
And mother, who can say since then 

" My country," cannot say through life 
"My .son," "my spouse," "my flower of 

And not weep dumb again. 

Heroic males the country bears. 

But daughters give up more than sons. 

Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares 
You flash your .souls out with the guns. 
And take your heaven at once ! 

But ice, — we empty heart and home 
Of life's life, love ! We bear to think 

You 're gone, — to feel you may not come, — 
To hear the door-latoh stir and clink 
Yet no more you, — nor sink. 

Dear God I when Italy is one 

And jjerfected from bound to bound, — 
Suppose (for my .share) earth 's undone 

By one grave in t ! as one small wound 

May kill a man, 't is found ! 

WTiat then ? If love's delight must end, 
At least we '11 clear its tiiith from flaws. 

I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend ! 
Xow take my sweetest without pause, 
To help the nation's cause. 

And thus, of noble Italy 

We '11 both be worthy. Let her show 

The future how we made her free, 
Not sparing life, nor Giulio, 
Nor this — this heart-break ! Go ! 

Elizabeth Barrett browning. 


As slow our ship her foamy track 
Against the wind was clearing, 

Her trembling pennant still looked back 
To that dear isle 't was leaving. 

So loath we part from ail we love, 
i'rom all the links that bind us ; 

So turn our hearts, as on we rove. 
To those we 've left behind us ! 

When, round the bowl, of vanished years 

We talk with joyous seeming, — 
With smiles that might as well be tears. 

So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us, 
0, sweet 's the cup that circles then 

To we 've left behind us ! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchanting, 
Where all looks flowerj', wild, and sweet, 

And naught but love is wanting ; 
We think how great liad been our bliss 

If Heaven had but a.ssigne<l us 
To live and die in scenes like this. 

With some we 've left behind us ! 

As travelers oft look back at eve 

When eastward darkly going. 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing, — 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consigned us. 
We turn to catch one fa/Iiiig r.\v 

Of joy that 's left behind us. 

Thomas Moork. 


Farewell to Lochaber ! and farewell, my Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I haemonyadaybecn ! 
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more. 
We '11 maybe return to Lochaber no more ! 
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, 
And no for the dangers attending on war. 
Though txime on rough seas to a far bloody shore. 
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 
They 'II ne'er make a tempest like that in my 

Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, 
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is .sair pained ; 
By ease that 's inglorious no fame can be gsiined ; 
And beauty and love 's the reward of the brave. 
And I maun deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my ; 
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? 
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee. 
And without thy favor I 'd better not be. 






I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, 
And if I should luck to oonie gloriously liame, 
1 '11 bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, 
And then 1 '11 leave thee and Lochaber no more. 
ALLAN Ramsay. 


Adiku, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
Tlie night-winds sigh, the breakers roar. 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Von sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awdiilo to him and thee. 

My native laud — Good Night ! 

A few short hours, and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
Anil 1 shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall. 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

Lord bvron. 



The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky homo ; 

'T is summer, the darkies are gay ; 
The corn top 's ripe and the meadow 's in the 

While the birds make music all the day ; 
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor. 

All merry, all happy, all bright ; 
By'm-by hard times comes a knockin' at the 
door, — 

Tlu'n, my old Kentucky home, gooil night ! 

Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more 

to-day : 
We '11 sing one song for my old Kentucky 

For our old Kentucky honu' far away. 

They liunt no more for the possum and the coon. 

On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; 
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon. 

On the bench by the old cabin-dooi- ; 
The day goes by, like a -shadow o'er the heart. 

With sorrow where all was delight ; 
The time come, when the darkies have to part, 

Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
Weep no more, my lady, etc. 

The head must bow, and the back will have to 
Wherever the darky may go ; 
A few more days, and the troubles all will end, 

In the field whei'e the sugar-cane grow; 
A few more days to tote the weary load. 

No matter, it will never be light ; 
A few more days till we totter on the road. 
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
Weep no more, my lady, etc. 

STEPHF.N C. Foster. 


Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the riee-swamp dank and lone. 
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, 
Where the noisome insect stings, 
W'here the fever demon strews 
Poison with the falling dews. 
Where the sickly sunbeams glare 
Tlirough the hot and misty air, — 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hill and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen ilaughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
There no mother's eye is near them, 
There no mother's ear can hear them ; 
Never, when the torturing lash 
Scams tlieir back with many a gash. 
Shall a mother's kindness bless them. 
Or a mother's arms caress them. 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-sw.amp dank ami lone. 
O, when weary, sad, and slow. 
From the fields at night they go. 
Faint with toil, and racked witli pain. 
To their cheerless homes again, 
There no brother's voice shall greet them, ■ 
There no father's welcome meet thcra. 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
From Virginia's lulls and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 





From tlie tree whose shadow lay 
On tlicir i.-liildhood's phu.'e of j.lay, — 
Fioiii tlie rjdol spring whi-ie llioy drank, — 
Kofk, and liill, and rivulet Ijaiik, — 
From the solemn house of prayer, 
And the holy counsels there, — 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swainp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 

To the rice-swami) dank and lone, — 

Toiling through the weary day, 

And at night the spoiler's prey. 

{) that they had earlier died, 

Sleeping calmly, side by side. 

Where the tyrant's power is o'er. 

And the fetter galls no more ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 

By the holy love He beareth, — 

By the bniistd reed He spareth, — 

O, may He to whom alone 

All their cruel wrongs are known 

Still their liojie and refuge ]irovc. 

With a more than mother's love ! 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe i.s me, my stolen daughters ! 

John Greeni.eaf Whittier. 


Since there 's no helpe, — come, let us kisse and 
parte ! 

X:iy, I have done, — you get no more of me ; 
And I am glad, — yea, glad with all my hearte, 

That thus so cleaidy I myselfe can free. 
Shake hands forever ! — cancel all our vows ; 

And when we meet at any time againe, 
Be it not scene in either of our brows. 

That we one jot of former love retaine. 

Now — at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath — 
When, his pulse failing. Passion speechless 
lies ; 

When Faith Is kneeling by his bed of death. 
And Innocence is closing up his eyes, 

Now ! if thou wouldst — when all have given 
him over — 
From death to life thou might'st him yet re- 


Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing. 
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate : 
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; 
My bonds in thee are all determinate. 
For how do I hold thee b\it by thy granting ? 
And for that riches where is my deserving ? 
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting. 
And so my patent back again is swerving. 
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not 

Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ; 
So thy great gift, upon misjirision growing, 
Comes home again, on better judgment making. 
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth (latter ; 
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter. 




And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! for shame ! 
To save thee from the blame 
Of all my grief and grame. 
And wilt thou leave me thus 1 
Say nay '. say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave mc thas. 
That hath loved thee so long. 
In wealth and woe among ? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave me thus, 
That hath given thee my heart, 
Never for to depart, 
Neither for pain nor .smart ? 
And wilt thou leave me thus '! 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave mc thus. 
And have no more pity 
Of him that loveth thee ' 
Ala.s ! thy cruelty ! 
And wilt thou leave me thus ' 
Say nay ! say nay ! 









We pnvtiHl in silence, we parted by night, 
Oil till' blinks of that h>nely rivt-r ; 

AVhere the fragrant limes tlieir boughs unite.. 
\\\' met — iuid we parted forever ! 

The night-bird sung, and the stare above 
Told many a toucliing story 

Of friends long passed to the kingdom of lova, 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 

We parted in silence, — our cheeks were wet 

With the tears that were past controlling ; 
We vowed we would never, no, never forget, 

And those vows at the time were consolinj; ; 
But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 

Are as cold as that lonely river : 
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, 

Has shrouded its fires forever. 

And now on the midnight sky I look. 

And my heart grows full of weeping ; 
BJich star is to me a sealed book, 

Some tale of that loved one keeping. 
We parted iu silence, — we jiarted in tears, 

On the banks of that lonely river : 
But the odor and bloom of those bygone yeais 

Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 

Mrs. crawfokd. 


Peace ! what can teai-s avail ? 
She lies all dumb and pale. 

And from her eye 
The spirit of lovely life is fading, — 

And slie must die ! 
Why looks the lover wroth, ^ the friend upbraid- 
ing ? 

Reply, reply ! 

Hath she not dwelt too long 
Midst iwin, and grief, and wrong ? 

Then why not die > 
Why sujfer agaiu her doom of sorrow, 

.\nd hopeless lie ? 
Why nui-se the trembling dream until to-momiw ! 

Keply, reply ! 

Death ! Take her to thine arms. 
In all her stainless charms ! 

And with her fly 
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness. 

The angels lie ! 
Wilt bear her there, death ! in all her white- 
ness ? 
Reply, reply ? 

\JRVAN Waller Procter (Barry Cornwalu, 



Clasp me a little longer on the brink 

Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat, — 0, 

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, 
That thou hast been to mc all tenderness. 
And friend to more thiui human friendship just. 
0, by that retrospect of hapinness, 
.\nd by the hopes of an immortal trust, 
(iod shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in 

dust ! 

Go, Hein-y, go not back, when I depart. 
The scene thy bui'sting teai-s too deep will move, 
Where my dear father took thee to his heart. 
And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove 
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove 
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast 
In heaven; for oui-s was not like earthly love. 
And must this parting be our very last ? 
No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is 

Half could 1 bear, methinks, to leave this 

earth, — 
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the 

If I had lived to smile but on the birth 
Of one dear pledge; — but shall there then be- 
In future time, — no gentle little one. 
To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? 
Yet seems it, even « liile life's last pulses run, 
A sweetness in the cup of death to be. 
Lord of my bosom's love 1 to die beholding thee ! 
THOMAS Campbell. 


Yes ! there are real mourners, — I have seen 
A fair sad girl, mild, sulTering, and serene ; 
Attention (through the day) her duties claimed. 
And to be useful as resigned she aimed ; 
Neatly she drest, nor vainly seemed t' expect 
Kty for grief, or parxlon for neglect ; 
But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep. 
She sought her place to meditate and weep ; 
Then to her mind was all the past displayed. 
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid ; 
For then she thought on one rcgi'etted youth, 
Her tender trust, and his unnnestioued tnith ; 
In every place she wandered, where they 'd been, 
And sadly-sacred held the jiarting scene. 
Where last for sea he took his leave : that place 
With double interest would she nightly trace 




Happy be sailed, and great tlie care she took 
That lie sliould softly sleep and smartly look ; 
White was his better linen, and his check 
Was made more trim than any on the deck ; 
And every comfort men at si'a can know 
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow : 
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told, 
How he should guard against the climate's cold ; 
Yet saw not danger ; dangers he M withstood. 
Nor could she trace llie fever in liLs blood. 

His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek. 
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak ; 
I'"or now he found the clanger, felt the pain. 
With grievous symptoms he could not explain. 
He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh 
A lover's message, — "Thomas, I must die ; 
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest 
.My throlibing temples on her faithful bre;, 
.And ga/ing go ! — if not, this trille take. 
And say, till death I wore it for her sake : 
Yes ! I must die — blow on, sweet breeze, blow on ! 
Give me one look before my life be gone ! 
0, give me that, and let me not despair ! 
iJne last fond look ! — and now repeat the 

Ho liad his wish, had more : I will not paint 
'l"he lovers' meeting ; she beheld him faint, — 
With t<Mider fears, she took a nearer view, 
Her teirors doubling as her hopes withdrew ; 
Ho tried to smile ; and, half suci'ceding. said, 
"Yes ! I must die" — and hope forever fled. 
.Still, long she nursed him ; tender thoughts 

Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. 
To her he came to die, and every day 
She took some portion of the dread away ; 
With him she prayed, to him his I'ible read. 
Soothed the faint heart, and held tlie aching 

head : 
She came with smiles the hour of [lain to cheer, 
.■\part she .sighed ; alone, she shed the tear ; 
Tlien, .as if breaking from a cloud, she gave 
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. 
One day he lighter seemed, and tliey forgot 
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot. 
A sudden brightness in his look appeared, 
X sudden vigor in his voice was heard ; — 
•She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, 
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair. 
Lively he .seemed, and spake of .all he knew, 
Tlie friendly many, and tlie favorite few ; 

but then his hand she prest. 

And fondly wliispered, " Thou must go to rest." 
" I gn, " he .said ; but as he sjioke, she found 
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the 

sound ; 
Then gazed affrighted ; hut she caught a last, 
A dying look of love, and all was |iast ! 

She placed a decent stone his grave above, 
Neatly engraved, — an offering of her love : 
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, 
Awake alike to duty and the ilcail ; 
She would have grieved, had friends jiresunied to 

The least assistance, — 't was her projier care. 
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, 
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit : 
rjut if observer, will take her round, 
And careless seem, for she would not be found ; 
Then go again, and thus her hours employ, 
While visions please her, and while woes destroy. 



Fakewell I — but whenever you welcome the 

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your 

Then think of the friend who once weleonnd it 

And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return — not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened hLs ])athway of 

pain — 
But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw 
Its enchantment around him while lingering with 


And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up 
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each 

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright. 
My soul, happy friends ! will be with you that 

night ; 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your 

And return to me, beaming all o'er with your 

smiles ! — 
Too blest if it tell me that, mid the gay cheer, 
Some kind voice has murmured, "I wish he were 

here ! " 

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy. 

Bright dreams of the, which she canimt 
destroy ; 

Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and 

And bring back the feature-i whirli joy used to 

Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! 

Like the vase in which roses have once been dis- 
tilled — 

You may break, vou may ruin the vasi', if you 

liut the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 





POEMS OF I'Airriyo and absence. 




Her window opens to the hay. 
On glistening liglit or misty gray, 
And there at dawn and set of day 

In prayer she kneels : 
" Dear Lord ! " she saith, "to many a home 
From wind and wave the wanderers come ; 
I only see the tossing foam 

Of stranger keels. 

" ISlinvn out and in by summer gales. 
The stately ships, with crowded sails, 
And sailors leaning o'er their mils, 

Before me glide ; 
They come, they go, but evermore, 
Spice-laden from the hulian shore, 
I see his swift-winged Isidore 

The waves divide. 

" thou ! with whom the night is day 
And one the near and far away, 
Ijook out on yon gray waste, and say 

Where lingers lie. 
Alive, perchance, on some lone beach 
Or thirsty isle beyond the reach 
Of man, he hears the mocking speech 

Of wind and sea. 

" dread and cruel deep, reveal 
The secret which thy waves conceal. 
And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel 

And tell your tale ! 
Let winds that tossed his raven hair 
A message from my lost one bear, — 
Some thought of me, a last fond prayer 

Or dying wail ! 

But, with her heart, if not her ear. 
The old loved voice she seemed to hear : 
" 1 wait to meet thee : bo of cheer. 
For all is well ! " 



If to be absent wei'e to be 
Away from thee ; 
Or that, wlien I am gone, 
Yo\i or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. 

But I '11 not sigh one blast or g:Ue 
To swell my sail, 
Or pay a tear to 'suage 
The foaming blue-god's rage ; 
For, whether he will let me i)ass 
Or no, I 'm still as happy as I was. 

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us lioth. 
Our faith and troth. 
Like sejiarated souls. 
All time and space controls : 
Above the highest sphere we meet. 
Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels greet. 

So, then, we do anticipate 
Our after-fate. 
And are alive i' th' skies, 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In heaven, — their earthly bodies left behind. 
Richard Lovelace 


"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out 
The fears that haunt me round about ; 
God ! I cannot bear this doubt 

That stifles breath. 
The worst is better than the dread ; 
Give me but leave to mourn my dead 
Asleep in trust and hope, instead 

Of life in death ! " 

It might have been the evening breeze 
That whispered in the garden trees. 
It might have been the sound of seas 
That rose and fell ; 


Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west ; 
For there the bonnie lassie lives. 

The lassie I lo'o best. 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

A nd monie a hill 's between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 
I see her sweet and fair ; 







I heal' her in the tuuefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 
There 's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, — 
There 's not a bonnie bird tliat sings, 

But minds me of my Jean. 

0, blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Aniang the leafy trees ; 
Wi' gentle gale, I'ra rauir and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees : 
Anil bring the lassie back to me 

That 's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae look at lic-r wad banish care, 

Sae lovely is my Jean. 




I AM undone : there is no living, none. 

If Bertram be away. It were all one. 

That I should love a bright particular star, 

And think to wed it, he is so above me : 

In his bright radiance and collateral light 

Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself : 

The hind that would be mated by the lion 

Must die for love. 'T was pretty, though a plague. 

To see him ev'ry hour ; to sit and draw 

His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls. 

In our heart's table, — heart too capal)lc 

Of every line and trick of his sweet favor : 

But now he 's gone, and my idolatrous fancy 

Must sanctify his relics. 


0, s.wv ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

Slie 's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her forever ; 

For nature made her what she is, 
And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Tbuu art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, T)efore thee ; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The deil he could na scaith thee, 
Oi" aught that wad belang thee ; 

He 'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And sav " I canna wrang thee ! " 

The powers aboou will lent thee ; 

ilisfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely 

That ill they '11 ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Keturn to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There 's nane again sae bonnie. 



I 'vE wandered east, I 've wandered west, 

Through mony a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel be black gin Vide ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

dear, <lear Jeanie Morrison, 
The thochts o' bygane years 

Still fling their shadows ower my path. 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 

.Vnd sair and sick I pine. 
As memory idly summons up 

The lilithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'T was then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink. 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 

1 i cmembered evermai v. 

1 wimder, Jeanie, aften yet. 

When sitting on that bink, 
( hi-ek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. 

What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent donn ower ac braid page, 

Wi' ae bulk on our knee. 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

O, mind ye how we hung our heads. 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said 

We decked thegither hame ? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The scule then skail't at noon.) 
Wlien we ran aff to speel the braes, — 

The broomy braes o' June ? 





My head rina round and round about, — 

My heart flows like a sea, 
As ane by aue the thochts rusli back 

O' scule-time, and o' thee. 

moridn' life ! O inornin' hive ! 

lichtsome days and lang, 

When hiunied hopes around our hearts 
Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

0, mind ye, luve, liow aft we left 

The deavui' dinsome toun, 
To wander by the green burnside, 

And hear its waters croon '. 
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 

The flowers burst round our feet, 
And in the gloamin' o' the wood 

The throssil whusslit sweet ; 

The throssil whusslit in the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees, — 
And we, with nature's heart in tune. 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the burn 

For hours thegither sat 
In the sileutness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Mon'ison, 

Tears trickled doun your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessed time. 

When hearts were fresh and young. 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

1 marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
Gin I hae been to thee 

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me. 
0, tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ! 
0, say gin e'er your lioart grows grit 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ! 

I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, 

1 've borne a weary lot ; 

But in my wanderings, far or near. 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this heart 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper, as it rins. 

The luve o' life's young day. 

() dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
Since wo were siudered young 

I 've never seen your face nor heard 
The music o' your tongue ; 

But 1 could hug all wreteheiluess. 

And happy could I dee, 
Did 1 but ken j-our heart still dreamed 

0' bj'gone days and me ! 

William motiilkwell. 


Reti'rn, return ! all night my lamp is burning; 

All night, like it, my w-ide eyes watch and 
burn ; 
Like it, 1 fade and pale, when day returning 

Bears witness that the absent can retuiii. 

Return, return. 

Like it, I lessen witli a lengthening sadness ; 

Like it, 1 burn to waste and waste to buiii ; 
Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness 

To feed the sorrowy signal for return. 

Return, return. 

Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind-sings, 

I bend and shake ; like it, I quake and yearn. 
When Hope's late butterflies, with whispering 

Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn — 

Burn in the watclifire of return, 

Return, return. 

Like it, the very flame whereby I pine 
Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn, 
My soul becomes a better soul than mine. 
And from its brightening beacon I discern 
My starry love go forth from me, and shine 
Across the seas a path for thy return, 
Return, return. 

Return, return ! all night 1 see it liurn. 

All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin 

Of palmM praying hands that meet and yearn — 

Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return. 

Day, like a golden fetter, locks tliem in. 

And wans the light that withers, though it burn 

.\s wamily still for thy return ; 

Still through the splendid load uplifts the thin 

Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn 

Naught but that votive sign for thy return. 

That single suppliant sign for tliy return. 

Return, return. 

Return, return I lest haply, love, or e'er 

Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to 

And thou, who through the window didst discern 
The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair 
To find no wide eyes watching there. 
No withered welcome waiting th\- return 






A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in tlie air, 

Thu ilanieless ashes, and the soulless urn, 

Wann with the famished tire that lived to bum — 

Burn out its lingering lite for thy return. 

Its last of lingering life for thy return, 

Its last of lingering life to light thy late return. 

Return, return. 


TiiEiiE lived a singer in France of old 

By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea. 
In a land of sand and ruin and gold 

Tliere shone one woman, and none but she. 
And (inding life for her love's .sake fail, 
Being fain to see her, he bade set sail. 
Touched laud, and saw her as life grew cold, 
And praised God, seeing ; and so ilied he. 

Died, praising God for liis gift and grace : 

For she bowed down to him weeping, and said, 
" Live " ; and her tears were slieil on his face 

Or ever the life in his face wa.s shed. 
The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung 
Once, and her close lips touched him and clung 
Once, and gi'cw one with his lips for a space ; 
And .so drew back, and the man was dead. 

brother, the gods were good to yon. 
Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. 

r.e well content as the years wear through ; 

Givr th.-iiiks for life, and the loves and lures ; 
fiivc tliaiiks for life, brothin-, and death. 
For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath. 
For gifts she gave you, gracious and few, 

Tears and kis.so3, tliat l.ady of yours. 

liest, and be glad of the gods: but I, 

How shall I praise them, or how take rest ? 

Tliirr is not room under all the .sky 
For me tliat know not of worst or best. 

Dream or desire of tlie days before. 

Sweet things or bitterness, any more. 

Love will not come to me now though I die. 
As lov(! came close to you, breast to breast. 

1 shall never be friends again witli roses ; 

I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown 
Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes. 

As a wave of the sea turned back by song. 
There are sounds where the .soul's delight takes 

Face to face with its own desire ; 
A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes ; 
I shall hate sweet music my whole life long. 

The pulse of war and passion of wonder. 

The heavens that murmur, the sounds that 

The stars that sing and the loves that thunder. 
The music burning at heart like wine. 

An armed archangel whose hands raise up 

All senses mixed in the spirit's cup, 

Till tlesh and spirit are molten in sunder, — 
These things are over, and no more mine. 

These were a part of the playing I heard 

Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife ; 
Love that sings and hath wings as a bird. 

Balm of the wound and heft of the knife. 
Fairer than earth is the sea, ami sleep 
Than overwatching of eyes that wec[i, 
Now time has done with his one sweet word. 
The wine and leaven of lovely life. 

I shall go my ways, tread out my measure. 

Fill the days of my daily breath 
With fugitive things not good to treasure, 

Do as the world doth, say as it saith ; 
But if we had loved each other — O sweet, 
Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet. 
The heart of my heart, beating harder with 

To feel you tiead it to dust and death — 

Ah, had I not taken my life up and given 
All that life gives and the years let go, 

Tin; wine and money, the balm and leaven. 
The dreams reared high and the hopes brought 

Come life, come death, not a word be said ; 

Should 1 lose you living, and vex you deaii ? 

1 shall never tell you on earth ; and in lieaven. 
If I cry to you then, will you hear or know ? 



Day, in melting purple dj-ing ; 
Blossoms, all around me sighing ; 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying ; 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ; 

Ye but waken my distress ; 

I am sick of loneliness ! 

Thou to whom I love to hearken, 
Come, ere night around me darken ; 
Though thy softness but deceive me, 
Say tiiou 'rt true, aud 1 '11 believe thee ; 
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent. 
Let me think it innocent ! 




I'OKMS ()*' rAnrisu} anh ausksck. 


siii\i> tliy toiling, xiwiv tliy tiwwmv ; 

All I iisk is tVlouvisliip's (iIto»\uv ; 

l.i'l U\o slviiiiiift Hit' lio iliu'kliiif;, 

Ui'inx i\i» pMn in lusltT !>i«iiklinft ; 

(lilV-t mwl gvilil i\iv iiimglil III 1110, 
\ WMuUl only look oil Uiw ' 

•IVU to tlll'O tllO llii"!! WIMIIJilll I't'oliiiK, 

KoHtnxy 1ml in i~ovi'iiliiij» ; 

I'liiiil tv> llioo llio lUvji M'lisiitivm, 

Umitmv in |vii-tloii>ntiou s 

Yi-t Imt toituiv, if iHiHipiVHl 
111 II loins nnlVii'inliHl Iiih'usI. 

AKsoiil still ! .Ml ! oonio sinl l>l<>ss mo I 

l.ol llioso oyos iij^nin iiiivss llioo. 

t»iioo, ill >';uilioii, I I'oiiM Hy lino , 

Now, 1 iiotliinji v'onlil dony lluv, 
111 II look ir>l(><>tli tlioiv I'o, 
I'oiiio, mul 1 will )puo on llioo I 


THK AK8Km' SOl.lMKK Sim, 

l,»>iii\ 1 lun wo<>)>iiv»{. As Hum will, t> l.oi\l, 
Ho Willi liiiu lis llion will ; lull O my (!oil, 
l.ol liini oomo Kiok to vlio ! l.ol not llio lowls 
0' tlu> nil' >lolilo llio K»1y of my oliikl. 
My own I'nii' oUiKI, tliivt wlion lio wiis i\ IniIh*, 
I lilt in> ill my iivms iiinl jpivo to Ilioo ! 
Lot not his jr.umont, l,oi\i, ln> viloly ivii'tinl, 
Nor llio lino linon wliioli tinvso Iminls Imvo simn 
V:\\\ to tlio sti:iiv>,w's lot ! ,>*ll»ll llio wiUl l>il\l, 
'I'hut wonUl li.iYo i>ilfoiwl of llio o\. tliis ywiv 
IMsvliiin llio (vos «»'l '*'«"" ' '^'>'>*' '»''' •'""*' 

'IMiiit on tlio Hook ami nionlt of ln-iitisli Iwists 
Uinl Kvn too lii\|>i\y, sloop in olotli of ,«mKI 
W lioitHif <viioli tliwi.l is to lliis iHiiliiifS lirtivt 
As ii |xvnli:ii- iliii'linj; * l.o, tlio lUiw 
Hum o'ov liim ' l.o, a fivithoi' lV>m tlio oi\«v 
K:iUs in liis iviitinl li|vs I l.vx. Iiis lUinl oyos 
Siv not tlio \tivon ' l.vs tlio woviii, tlio worm 
t'lx^'iw l\\>m his fi>stoviiij; >vi-so ! My t!o>l ! my 

t?vHl ! 

(>, tlion vlvHv<t woll, I am ivntont. 
If tlii>\i liavo inwl of liini. ho sliall not stay, 
r«il as ono oallotli to a sorvant, sjiyinj; 
•" At snoli ii timo K> witli m<\" s-v, t^ l.oi\l, 
Oill liim to tliiH- ' t'>, l>i>l liiin not in liiisto 
Stmijslit wlioiiiv lio stamlotli. Lot liim lsi,v asi>lo 
Tho soiUM tiHxIs of lalH>v, Lot liim wash 
His liaiivls of hlvn>»\, Lot liim avi-tiy liimsolf 
M(Vt for Ills l,oi\l. |>«i-o l\\«« tlio swoat ami l\imo 
Of .H>n>ouil travail ! l.oi\i, if U» ">vist >Uo, 
l*>t him >lio lioiv, l\t«ko him whotv tlnw jp»>-<vst ! 

Ami ovon iis on.'o I liol.l liun m in> «,.ihI. 
Till all things woio riilliUoa, aii.l ho .iim.' loilli, 
,So, l.oitl, lot 1110 hoM him in my giavo 
Till llio timo oomo. uiul tlnm, who sot tost whoii 
Tho liimls ,hIiii11 oalvo, onliiiii n hottoi' hiilh ; 
Aiul 11,1 1 looki'il ami saw my sou, ami wopi 
I'oi' joy, I hiok iifjain ami soo my .mui, 
Ami WOO)! again for joy of him ami tlioo 1 

sioNhv iiomi I 

t'oMit to mo, O my Motliov I oonio to mo, 
I'liino own son slowly ilying I'm' away ! 
Thiviigh tlio iiioisi ways of tho wiilo oooaii, Mown 
liy gival invisihlo wimls, oonio statoly shi|w 
To (his oalm Uiy lor uniot anolioiiigt' ; 
Tlioy oomo, llioy ivst iiwliilo, llioy go away, 
lint, t> my Molhov, iiovoi' oomosi tlion I 
I'lio snow is ixmml thy ilwoUing, tho wliito snow. 
'I'hat oohl sort ivvolation (miv as light. 
Ami tho ivino-siiiix> is niystioally iVingr'il, 
l.aooil with inonistoil silvoi', lloiv all mi' ' 
'I'lio wiiilor is ilooiviiit, iimloi'lnnn, 
,\ lojioi' willi 110 nowov hut his ilisoaso. 
Why mil I Ittmi tlioo, Motliov, far IVmi tlioo ! 
Vav fltmi tho iWst onohantmont, ami tho wooils 
.lowoloil l\\mi hough to lH>ngli / O homo, my 

homo ! 
ti rivor in tho valloy of my homo. 
With ina-^v wimling molioii inlrioiito. 
Twisting thy ili>iitlihvs.s nuisio umlonioalh 
Tho (Hilislio,! ioo-work, must 1 iiovormoiv 
lloliohl Ilioo with familiar oyos, ami waloli 
Thy Knnity ohanging with tho i'liang<'l\il ilay. 
Thy U-auty oonstant to tho oonstuiit oliango ' 
ivAvio v;kav 

TllK Kl'srlO l..\iv,< t.AMl'IN'l" IN TUK 'l\l\VN 

l\ \v \i> that my timo woiv owiv Imt, 

\Vi" this wintry slool ami snaw. 
That 1 might soo onr Inmso ag-ain, 

r tho Nmnio hirkoii sliaw ! 
Kv»' this is no my ain lifo, 

Anvl I (HHik ami (miio away 
Wi" tho llnvlits o' liamo ami tho young llowoi-s. 

In tho ghul gixH>n month of May, 

I nsoil to wauk in tho morning 

AVi' tho loiul ,««!}! o" tho lark, 
Ami tho whistling o" tho plowman laiUs 

.Vs thoy ginil to thoir walk ; 
I «s«l to woar tho hit young lamKs 

Krao tho tvol ami tho iwiring stmmi ; 
I5ut tho warhl is oli»ng<Hl, ami a' thing now 

IV mo siH-ms Uko a ilrwim. 





'\'\iKtl: lltf, tills:'/ ':r'/W'l?. :il'illll'l til':, 

0/1 ilka Imifi^ <l»ll otr'ait. ; 
YkI, l\>iiHfi)i niv; iiiniiy nurrniiwl iin;, 

I kmi iiii HUH ( tii'ntl, : 
Aii>\ I tWdk '/ kiriil L'<:nt (iuti:», 

J\iA 11 \i\Mii: ail' chu-.r/ 'ln-yti, 
Wli«i) I waii/lcnd out wi' our aln Wk, 

Out iiwri; III/! niiiiiiiKT iirufnt, 

Wtu-.n rill:, for my li/iart )* \ifjMiii/, ! 

I tliifik <>' my \iniUi'.t miih', 
/\ui\ on my ii\»U:r it/iMtUin, 

Wliir/i f <;arft fra/! Iiamc ay/a, 
A/i'i 0, li/zc/ my iiMn^r >:iAi\M., 

A» clu; atiw/k m<j t;y tli': liao'l, 
Wliirfi I left ll.<! <l/c/r II imr auM li'/iiW;, 

'I'd limn: U> thi« xlraiigBr la/i'l. 

Tlicre '» ii;»« hainfc IIk« imr aid bam<; — 
O, J wiisli tliat 1 werethwi! 
'I'li<;f>: V. )ia/; ham<; lik<; onr airi liam<; 

'/'<< U; met wi' onyv/lmri: ; 
Aii/1 tliat J w<rr<! inu.k aj{alii, 

To our fan»( and fiol/U ««: gr<;';;i ; 
Ah'I h<!ar4 th* UiiiiQUm u' my ai/i folk, 

Ad'l W'rre what 1 ><a<; l/<*(i ! 

)!•/ TirK AJ.MA UVKH..,, foM your littlft Unruh; 

f/-t it 'iroji, that "k/iMikt" Uiy; 
ijnM vihiiii: fatli'tr'it pi/rturi; utamU, — 
Kathw, that her'! kiws'!'! hi» Ix/y 
.V(/t a month din/*, — father ki/i<l, 
Who thi» nij^it may <ui:vi:r iiiiml 
M//th«f'» Koh, my Willi/! (l/!ar; — 
(^ry imt lou/1 that He may htar 
WJi/< i« (ii/ii of liatthsi, — «ay 
" O'/l k/!"!/) (ntUnr xafe thi* <)ay 
IJy the Alma JJiver!" 

Hun'Ire'lK, thoiiwifi'l ?, (>rt u* v/eeji, 
We v/ho n<->:/| not, jii*l I/, k'«|< 
Mtfuviii elear in th'/ii((lit an<) I/rain 
Till the morning (j/z/nen ajjaln ; 
Till th* thifl <lr<!«i/J iiiimiiiiK tell 
Wli/>they were that foii^jht and /W< 
Jjy the Alma Itiyer, 

t'.'iiiii:, iii:']\ lay i« liiiwu, iny ehll/1; 

Co'/r the i/f/| ii, fiitiir an/1 liard ; 
lliit thy father, f!,r i:ziiiA, 

MfM\m u|c/ri the oj«n nwar'l, 
l)ri:timiiiK 111 »H two at home ; 
Or, fif.uiMh the «fj»rry 'lonie, 
I>i({!t out Uniii:Ui9t ill till: 'lark. 
Where he Utnist — Willie, mark ! — 
Win:rt! /« terfoer th'/«« who 'licl 
J'ijfliting ' (i({hti«({ at hi* »i'l« — 
By the Alma Jiiver, 

Willie, Willie, ((O U, «lee(, ; 

O'W will hel(. ui, my hz/y! 
/(e will make the ilull hour* ereep 

faiU'r, an'l ^'-r.-l h-»>, of ;ov ; 
Whftn I ne/ ; 
Th/zw; ;(rea^ 
'n«t for w- . , 

In */>me eye* i.hilA, ,,:j v.,.i.'.. ^.t^ynr 
On/;/: a({ain, a different one, 
Kay, "O O'W ! thy will 1* <|//ne 
J}y the Alma iJiver," 

fyiiiAH UKijy.n ';*Aii: 


l.inhf.k ri'/* Ion;' Ho.'ft'- !>: no* fi'/ri:'- wisho-i 


0, hrt, . 

Oen'.. , 

Unj/er n//t |//n{{, T>i//Ti({h i:r'ivh >.h',a\ii tuiii thy 
lUitMiik th/!e, /:«« the mirth of frie»//l», iUim^i 
I imi^iiaixiM fur the KmflUy imisi 'Ikhyiiift, 
CoJit* the fond h/5«rtthat«i;(hA t// have th/!<! Iiere ? 

Aj»k no m//re, ehil/l ! X/rcer hewl 

KithCT fitu«, //r frank, or Turk ; 
liight of ftationa, tr»mf<le/l erw:/!, 

('AinufA'\ii /, ' '//Ay v/hix ; 

All'/ \\>i.n i' ti. 
On thy hei(/r • 

Willi/!, all t/. y-u ;,..,! i.v; .: 

J» that *\kA,, what/:'er it f<:. 

Where he (itan')« ~ no //ther w/rd ;.; 

HUi/ii/Im — (UA sure the ehlW» [iinyitn h*«r'l! — I An/J «>)<!«/* hnw/ji mi aii tlimu/, iiKe a >s|*)l ! 
Near the Alma Jiiver, 


Willie, lijrt/jn to the UlU 
Hiiij^iiSi^ III tfie t//v/n t/>-'Iay ; 

Tfi/it '» for vUHotj. So knell itwel 
Cor the many Kwej/t away, — 

Ifov/ ttimU I wat/;h t/r th/;*, wh/rn fear* jfr'/W 

A» night gr'/w« dark an'l 'Urk<^ '/n the hill ; 
How ((hall r wee-ji, when i imii wa!/!h no long**! 

Ah ! art th//u al/ntertt, art th//n aW^it vtill 7 





Yil 1 ^ll.mM iiiiovo no(, tlioiij;li |]n' ovo Uiiit soi'tli 


Kill- O, 1 souii'limos IVai- wlu'ii lluni ait with nio. 
My ouii ol' liaiipiuoss is all too lull. 

Haslo, liasto llioi'hoiuo unto tliy nioiiiilaiii ihvoll- 
Ilasto, as a liinl \mto its |)oiioi'fiil lu'sl ! 
llasto, as a skill', tluMUjih ti'iiiiicst-s \\iiU> ami 
Klios to its liaviMi ol' scouivsl i-osl ! 


WiiAi- sliall 1 .lo with all llu> days ami hours 
That must 1h> oomitod oiv 1 s.-o thy I'aoo !" 

How shall 1 I'liann tho iutorval that lowoi's 
lli'lwcoii this limoaml that swoot tiiiio ol'giiico* 

Shall 1 ill slmiihor sloo]! i-ju'h wwiiy soiiso, — 
\\'oaiy with loiigiivj; ! Shall 1 lloo away 

Into iKist (lays, ami with soiuo foiul piMtousc 
rlu'al mysoU'to roi'gi>t the luvsi'ut Jay? 

Shall lovo for thco lay on my soul tho sin 
01' casting fixim mo tnui's givat gift of tiuio .' 

Shall 1, thoso mists of momory lookoil within, 
l.oavo ami forgot lifo's luirposos snhUmo ? 

0, how or by what moans may 1 oontrivo 
To liriug tho hour that hrings tlioo hiok inoiv 
noar 1 

TIow may 1 tonoli my drooping hopo to liw 
I'ntil that hlossoil timo, ami thou art hoiv ? 

1 '11 toll thou : for thy sako 1 will lay hold 
llf all gxiod aims, and oonsoomto to tlioo. 

In worthy doods, oaoh inomont that is told 
Whilo thou, holovid oiio ! art far fivm mo. 

For thoo I will aivuso my thoughts to try 
Alllioavonw!ii\lllights. all high and holy strains; 

For thy doar sako, I will walk iwtiontly 
Thiwigh thoso loiij5 honrs, nor oall tlioir iiiiii- 
utos imiiis, 

I will this di'i'ary Wank of aKsonoo mako 
A uohlo task-timo ; and will thoiviu stri\i< 

To follow oxoollonoo, and to o'ortako 

Moiv gxxHl than 1 liavo won sinoo yot I livo. 

So may this dooim^d timo hnild np in ino 

A tliovisiuul gi-aoos, whioh shall thus Ih< thiiio ; 

So may my lovo and Uuiging liallowod K\ 
And thy divir thought an inlluonoo vlivino. 



Tins jiinos woi'o dark on Kamotli hill, 
Tlioir song was soft and low ; 

Tho hlossoms in tho swoot May wind 
Woro falling liko tho snow. 

Tho blossoms drifted at our foot, 
Tho oivliani binls sang oloar ; 

Tho swootost and tho saddost day 
It soomod of all tho yoar. 

For, moiv to mo than binls or llowors, 

My iilaymato loft lior homo. 
And took with hor llio laughing spriug, 

Tho iiiiisio and tho bloom. 

Sho ki.ssod tho lips of kith and kin, 

Slio laid hor liiiud in miiio ; 
What nioiv oould ask tho Imshfnl bov 

Who tod hor fathor's kino t 

Sho loft ns in tho bloom of Jlny ; 

Tho oonstant yoars told o'or 
Tlioir soasons with as swoot May morns, 

Hut sho oamo hiok no inoiv. 

1 walk with iioisoloss foot tho round 

Of nnovontful yoars ; 
Still o'or and o'or 1 sow tho sluing. 

And tvap tho autumn oai-s. 

Slio livos whori> all tho goldoii yoar 

llor summor rosos blow : 
Tho dusky ohildivn of tlio sun 

Hoforo hor oomo and go. 

Thoro haply with hor jowolod hands 
Sho smooths hor silkoii gown, — 

Ko moiv tho hoiiiospnn lap whoix'iii 
1 shook tho walnuts down. 

Tho wild grajH-s wait ns by tho brook, 

Tho bivwn nnts on tho hill, 
And still tho May-day llowors mako swoot 

Tho woods of Folly mill. 

Tlio lilios blo.s.som in tho pond, 

Tho biiil builds in tho tivo, 
Tho dark pinos sing on liamoth lull 

Tho slow song of tho soa. 

I wonder if .sho thinks of tliom, 
And how tho old timo sooms, — 

If o\Tr tlio pinos of Hainoth wood 
Aiv sounding in hor divams. 

I soo hor faoo, 1 hoar hor voice : 
Pot's sho ivmomWr mino > 





And wir.-it, t(. Ui-y \h now \\w lK)y 
Who UA her fatlicr'ii kin<: ? 

What car(;» ohft that the uniAi-M 1/iiil'l 

For other <:y<;H than oiini, — 
That other hands with riiitfi arc filled, 

And </th<;r \;i\n with flow<;r>i ! 

O playmat/; in the j(i>\iU:u time ! 

Our (noHHy fieat id (freen, 
IlJ) fringing vuAnUt iAmiujui yet, 

The old treen o'er it l«in. 

The winds wj sweet with hireh and feni 

A sweet<;r memory blow ; 
And therein sfiring the veerics sing 

The S'jng of long ago. 

And -itill the jiinen of liamoth wood 

An; mi^aning like the f«;a, -^ 
The nj'/aning of the sea of ehange 

iJe-tween inyself and thee ! 

loMM f>. WKir-nep 

ON A KICroilK. 

Whbk summer o'er her native hills 

A veil of fx;anty spretcl, 
She sat and wat>;hwi her gentle (locks 

And twined her flaxen threfwl. 

The inonntain daisies kisswl her fi*t ; 

The m'jss sprung greenest there ; 
The >/r'»ith of summer fiinn'yl her eheck 

And to»!«:d her wavy hair. 

TJie heather and the yellow gorsc 

lilofjrnwl over hill and wold, 
And elothwl them in a royal rol* 

Of purine anrl of gold. 

ThCTC T(iiv: till: skylark's gushing song, 
There hiimmwl the latxvring t/«e ; 

And merrily the mountain •itr'sirn 
lian singing to the s<;a. 

But while she mirnvA from thrrt*; sweet s'junds 

Tlie voi(« she sighed U) hear, 
TJie w»ng of f>ee and bird and stream 

"Was disw>rd t/j her isir, 

Kor eonld the V/right green world around 

A joy Ui her imfiart. 
For still she miiwA the eyes that ma/le 

The summer of her heart. 


A M< are ye sure the news is tnie ' 

And are ye sure he 'h weel '! 
I^ this a time t/» think o' wark f 

Ve j!i/|(a, lay f/y your wheel; 
Is this the time to s(iin a threa/l, 

When ','olin 's at the dfK/r ; 
li<:a<;h down my cl'jak, 1 'II ^/i the 'juay. 
And we him cjniii; ashore, 

Kor the-re 's nae luek alxiut the hoiw;, 

'/'here 's n/i»; luek at a'; 
There 's nae luek alxirit the house 
When our gudeman s awa'. 

And gie t/i me rny higonet, 

.\(y hishop's-satin gown ; 
for I maun t,ell the Uillie's wife 

'I'liat Colin '» in the t/iwrr. 
,\Iy Turkey slipjiers rnaun gae on, 

.My st/»ekins [p«.-arly blue ; 
It 's a' t/» plejtsiire our gudeman, 

For he 's With leal and tnie. 

I:is<;, l;i.i«(, and rnak a el'^in fireside, 

I'ut on the rnuekle Ji'jt ; 
f/ie little Kate her eott/jn gown, 

And .foek his .Sunday ewit ; 
And mak their sliwm as Ha/ik as sla«s. 

Their h'lS*; as white ta snaw ; 
It 'ft a' to p|i*iw; my ain gtidcman. 

For he 's Ix^jn long awa'. 

Tliere 's twa fat liens ujoi' the J>ank, 

'Riey 've fed this month and mair ; 
Alak h.-iste and thraw their neeks aV;ut, 

That Colin W(y:) rnay fare ; 
And MfiTKa/l the table nefit and el'»in. 

Oar ilka thing lo^jk Vn-aw, 
For wha ean t^rll how Colin f:ired 

When he was far awa' ! 

.%!/! tnie his heart, sa/; smfXJtb his sjieerih, 

His fir<*ith like ealler air ; 
His very fw/t has musie in 't 

As he r/ntiifi up the stair, — 
And will I w.': Jits fa/* again ? 

And will I hear hirn sjK^ak ? 
I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 

In troth I 'rn like i/i siT>-jd '. 

'nil; ejinld hlast^i '>' the vrinU:T wind, 

'Hiat thirlwl through my heart, 
TViey 're a' blown by, I ha/: him riafe. 

Till death we'll never [;art ; 
JJut what puts j^rting in my hea/l ? 

It may be far awa' ; 
Tlie present moment is our ain , 

TJie neist we never saw. 


'^ JUJ 



If Colin 's weol, and woel ooiitout, 

1 hiiti imo umir to i-riivo : 
Ami j;iii 1 livii to koi'i) him siui 

I 'm lilnst atiooii tho liivi> : 
Ami will 1 st'o his (nee agiiiu ? 
Aiul will 1 lieiir him spoiik ? 
1 'mi ilowiiiight dizzy wi' tho Uiought, 
In tivlh 1 'm like to giwt. 
For tlioiv "s imo hu'k iibout tho housp, 

Tliei-o 's niiu liu-k iit a' ; 
Theiv 's little pleasui* in the houso 
When ouv g\uloman 's awa". 

W'lLl.lAM J. MlCKLK. 


When 1 think on the hapjiy days 

I spoilt wi' you, my denrio ; 
And now what hmds Ixitweoii us lie, 

How can 1 Iw but eerie ! 

How slow yo move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye woni wae and weary ! 
1 1 was iia sac ye glinted by 

'When I was \\i' my dearie. 



Ten years ! — and to my waking eye 
Ouee mon' the ixxifs of Berne appear ; 

The iwky Imnks, tlie terraee high, 
The stivam, — and do 1 lingi-r here ? 

The elouds are on tJie Oberland, 
The .luiigfrau snows look faint and far ; 

l)«t bright are tJioso gi'eeii fields at hand, 
And through those fields comes down tlio Aar, 

.\nd fixim the blue twin lakes it comes. 
Flows by the town, the eluiirliyanl lair, 

.\nd 'neatli the gnixlen-walk it hums. 
The house, — and is my Mai-guerite there ? 

All. shall 1 see thets while n flush 
l">f startled pleasure floods thy brow, 

l^uiek tlirongli the oleanders brush, 

.-Viid clap thy hands, and cry, ' T is thoii ? 

Or hast thou long since wandeiitKl back. 
Daughter of France ! to Fiimce, thy home ; 

And rtitteil down the flowery track 

Where feet like thine too lightly come ? 

Poth riotons laughter now r«>i>laco 
Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare. 

Thy cheek's soft hue, and fluttering lace 
The kerehief that euwound thv hair » 

Or is it over / — art thou dead ? — 
Head ' — and no warning shiver ran 

Across my heart, to say thy thread 
Of life was cut, and closeil thy si^m ! 

Could from earth's ways that figure slight 
Be lost, and 1 not fed 't was' so ? 

Of that iVesh voice flic gay delight 

Fail from earth's ail, and 1 not know ! 

Or shall 1 find tluc still, but changed. 
But not the Jlargiieritc of thy prime ? 

With nil thy being rearniugcd, 

I'assed through the crucible of time ; 

With spirit vanished, beauty wiined, 
And hardly yet a glance, a tone, 

A gesture, — anything, — retained 
Of all that was my Mai-gucrite's own ? 

I will n«>t know ! — for wherefori' try. 
To things by mortal eoui-se that live, 

A shadowy durability 

For which they were not meant, to give ! 

Like driftwood spars which meet and pass 
Upon the boundless ocean-plain. 

So oil the sea of life, alas ! 

Man Hears man, meets, and leaves again. 

I knew it when my life was young, 
1 feel it still, now youth is o'er ! 

The mists aiv on the mountain hung. 
And Marguerite 1 shall see no more. 



Like a foundling in slumber, the summer-day 
On the crimsoning tliresliold of even. 
And 1 thought that the glow through the azure- 
aivlied way 
Was a glinnise of the coming of Heaven. 
There together we sat by the beautiful stream ; 
We had nothing to do but to love and to dream. 

In the days that have gvme on before. 
These are not the same days, though they War 
the same name. 
With the ones 1 shall welcome no more. 

But it may bo that angxds are calling thom o'er, 

For a Sablxith and summer forever, 
When the veal's shall forgvt the Decembers they 
I wore. 

And the shroud shall Ih' woven, no never ! 
; In a twilight like that, Jennie .Tune for a bride. 





O, wliat iiioie of the world couM oin; wish lor 

As we gazeil ou tlio river unrolleil, 
Till we heard, or we fancied, its musical tide, 

When it Mowed through the gateway of gold ! 

"Jennie June," then I said, "let us linger no 
On the banks of the beautiful river ; 
Let the boat be unmoored, and U: niullled the 
And we '11 steal into heaven togi;ther. 
If the angel on duty our coming descries. 
You have nothing to do but throw olf the dis- 
'Dial you wore while you wandered with me. 
And the sentry shall say, ' Welcome ba<;k to the 
We long have been waiting for th(;e.' " 

Oil ! how sweetly she spoke, er<: she uttered a 

With that blush, partly hers, partly even's. 
And a tone, like the dream of a song we once 

As she whispered, " 77ms way is not lieaven's : 
For the Uiverthat iiins by the realm of the blest 
lias no song on its lipjile, no star on its breast ; 

Oh ! thai nver is nothing like this, 
Kor it gli<les on in shadow beyon<l the world's 


Till it breaks into beauty and Ijliss. " 

1 am lingering yet, but I linger alone, 
On the banks of the beautiful river ; 
'T is the twin of that day, but the wave where it 
Bears the willow-tree's shadow forever. 

rjHNjAMiN I-. Taylor. 


I WISH wo were bamc to our ain folk, 
Our kind and our true-hearted ain Iblk, 
Where thesimple arc weal, and the gentleare leal. 
And the hames arc the hamcs o' our ain folk. 
We've been wi' the gay, and the gude where 

we 've come, 
We 're courtly wi' many, we 're coulhy wi' some ; 
Hut something 's still wantin' we never can lind 
Sin' the day that we left our auld ueelwrs behimi 

0, 1 wish we were haine to our ain folk. 
Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. 
Where dalfin and glee wi' the friendly and free 
Made our hearts aye sae foinl o' our ain folk. 
Though Syriwj had its moils, and Hmnmcr its 

And AvXwmn craved jiith i;re we gathered its 

Yet Winter repaid a' the toil that we took, 
When ilk ane crawed crouse by his ain ingle nook. 

O, I wish we were hame to our ain folk, 
Our kind and our trac-hcartcd ain folk, 
Where maidens and men in hall and in glen 
Still welcome us aye as their ain folk. 
They told us in gowjxjns we 'd gather the gear, 
Sae sune as we cam' to the rich .Mailins here, 
IJut what are the Mailins, or what arc they worth. 
If they be not enjoyed in the land o' our birth ! 

Then 1 wish we were hame to our ain folk, 

Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. 

Hut deep are the howes and high are the knowes, 

That keep us awa' frac our ain folk. 

The seat by the door where our auld faithers sat. 

To tell a' the news, their views, and a' that. 

While down by the kailyard the Imrnie rowed 

'T was mair to my liking than aught that is here. 


FnoM you have I been absent in the spring, 
When proud-pied Ajiril, dressed in all his trim. 
Hath put a spirit of Youth in everything, 
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
Of diderent llowers in odor and in hue. 
Could make me any summer's story tell. 
Or fiom their proud lap pluck them wheie they 

grew : 
N'or did I wonder at the lilies white. 
Nor the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and you away, 
As with your shadow I with these did play. 


Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk, 

Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, 

Where the wild thistles wave o'er th' alwde o' the 

And the graves are the graves o' our ain folk 
But happy, gey lucky, we '11 trudge on our way, 
Till our ann waxes weak and our liaifets grow 

gray ; 
And, tho' in this world our ain still we miss. 
We '11 meet them at last in a world o' bliss. 

Anil Ih^n we '11 I)e liame to our ain folk, 
Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk. 
Where far 'yont the moon in the heavens aboon 
The hames are the hames o' our ain f.Ik. 







t'oMK to iiu>, (Iwu-^vst, 1 "m loiu-ly witho\it theo. 
l^nvtimo imd iiight-tinio, I in tliinkiug aKiiit 

tluv ; 
Night-timo and di>ytin>t>, in ihwiins 1 1h>1>oU1 

thoo ; 
rnwoloonu' tlio wsikins; wliioli otwses to fo\il tlioo. 
Oo\no to ino, ilailinj;. n>y sorixiws to ligliti-n, 
IVmo ill tJiy Ivanty to hlivss ami to hiigliton ; 
I'oiiio in thy womaiiluxnl, nnvkly niui lowly, 
Conio in tliy loviiigness, ijuooiily and holy. 

S\v:d\o\vs will Ilit ivimd tlu> dosoliito niiu, 
Ti'lUiii; of spviuj; and its joyous iviunviiig ; 
Ai\< oiivlinj; my lu\>vt with a juvniiso of j>K\isuro. 
O S)>ring of my sjYiiit, May of my Kisimh, 
81iiiuH>ntonmysonl, till itKnii^^^nand blossom; 
Tho wasto of my lifo has a iwso-iwt witliin it. 
And thy fondness alono to tho snnsliiiio oan win it, 

Kis;mv that movos liki< a song through tho ovon ; 
Fwitiii\>s lit up by a ivllox of hoavoii ; 
Eyi's lik(> tho skios of jhwv Eiin, our mothor, 
Whoiv shadow iuid sun&hiiio an> chasing eadi 
other ; 

Smilos coming seldom, but childlike and single, 
Planting in each i\wy cheek a sweet dimple ; — 
i.\ thiuiks to the Saviour, that even thy .seeming 
Is left to the e.xile to brighten his divaming. 

You have Khhi glad when yon knew 1 was glad- 

deiitnl : 
0«ir, au< you sad now to hear 1 am .saddened ! 
Onr lusirts over luiswer in tune and in time, love. 
As octave tooctjive, and rhyme unto rhyme, love : 
1 cannot weep but your teai-s will be llowing. 
You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing ; 
1 would not die without you at my side, love. 
You will not liiigi<r when 1 sliall have diisl, love. 

Come to me, dear, eiv 1 die of my sorivw, 
Kise on my ghHun like the sun of to-morivw ; 
StTOUg, swift, and fond as the wonls which 1 

.<lHvi}v, love, 
AVith a song on your lip and a smile on your 

cheek, love. 
Come, for my heart in your al>senco is weary, — 
Haste, for my spirit is sickcnwl and dix'ary, — 
Come to the arms which alone should caivss tluv. 
Come to the lieai't that is thivbbing to pix'ss thee ! 
Jostiru Bkennan. 









f^. <3eL 













Ye banks and braes o' Ixjmiie Dooii, 

How can ye bloom sae fresli ami fair ? 
How can ye chant, ye little Ijirds, 

And I sae weaiy, fu' o' care ? 
Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons through the flowering thorn ; 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed — never to return. 

Ah hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny ti'ee ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



Whe.n the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye 's 

come hame. 
And a' the wear}' warld to rest are gane ; 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ce, 
Unkeut by my gudeman wha sleefw sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and socht me for hLs 
bride ; 

But, saving a crown piece, he had naething be- 

To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to 
sea ; 

And the crown and the pound they were Vjaith 
for me ! 

He hadna been gane awa a twelvemouth and a 

\Vhen my father brake his arm, and the cow was 

stown awa ; 

My mither she fell sick, my young Jamie was at 

sea, — 
And auld Kobin Gray cam' a courting me. 

My father cou'dna wark, — my mither cou'dna 

spin, — 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I cou'dna 

win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' t«ars 

in his ee, 
Said, "Jenny, 0, for their sakes, will ye no 

marry me !" 

My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back ; 
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a 

wTack ; 
His ship was a wrack ! Why didna Jamie die ? 
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae 's me ? 

My father urged me sair, — my mither didna 

But she looked in my face till my heart was like 

to break ; 
They gied him my hand, my heart was in the 

sea ; 
And so Kobin Gray he was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been his wife, a week but only four. 
When, mounifuUy as I sat on the stane at my 

I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I cou'dna think it he, 
Till he said, " I 'm come hame, love, to marry 

thee ! " 

sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', 

1 gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa', 

I wish that I were dead, but I 'm na like to die ; 
For though my heart is broken, I 'm but young, 

wae 's me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin ; 
I darena think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
But 1 '11 do my best a gude wife to be. 
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. 








For aught that ever 1 couki reiui, 

L'oukl ever hear by tale or history. 

The coui-se of true love never diil run smooth : 

liut, either it was dillereiit in blood, 

Or else misgratl'ed in respect of yoai-s ; 

t>r else it stood upon the choice of friends ; 

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, 

War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, 

Making it momentary as a sound, 

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ; 

Brief as the lightning in the eoUied night. 

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth. 

And ere a man hath power to siiy, — Behold 1 

The jaws of darkness do devour it up : 

So quick bright things come to confusion. 




'T IS time this heart should be unmoved. 
Since others it has ceased to move ; 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved. 
Still let me love. 

My days ai-o in the yellow leaf. 
The flowers and fruits of love are gone. 
The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
Are mine alone. 

The fire that in my bosom preys 
Is like to some volcanic isle. 
No torch is kindled at its blaze, 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 
The exalted portion of the jmin 
And power of love, 1 cannot share, 
r>ut wear the chain. 

But 't is not here, — it is not here, 
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, 
Where glory seals the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
lilory and Greece about us see ; 
The Spartan l)orne upon his shield 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! not Greece, — she is awake ! 
Aw:ike, my spirit ! think through whom 
My life-blood tastes its paient lake. 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 
Unworthy manhood ! unto thee, 
Indillerent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st tliy youth, — why live? 
The land of honorable death 
Is here, — up to the field, and give 
.'\way thy brcutli I 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 
.\ soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground. 
And take thy rest ! 

LuKU Byron. 


rAVUSE, by pride 
.-Vngels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride, — 
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold, — 
The evil spirit of a bitter love 
And a ifveugeful heart had power upon thee. 
Krom my first years my soul was tilled with thee ; 
1 saw thee midst the tlowers the lowly boy 
Tended, unmarked by thee, — a spirit of bloom. 
And joy and freshness, as spring itself 
Were nnide a living thing, and wore thy shape ! 
1 Siiw thee, and the pa.ssionate heart of man 
Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; 
.\nd from that hour 1 grew — what to tlui 
1 shall be — thine adorer ! Well, this love. 
Vain, frantic, — guilty, if thou wilt, Iwcame 
A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; 
1 thought of tales that by the winter hearth 
Old gossips tell, — how maidens sprung from 

Have stooped from their high sphere ; how Love, 

like Death, 
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook 
Beside the scepter. Thus I nnide my home 
In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! 
My father died ; and I, the ]ieasant-l)orn, 
Was nry own lord. Then did I seek to rise 
Out of the prison of my mean estate : 
And, with such jewels as the exploring mind 
Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my 

From those twin jailers of the daong heart. 
Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright inntge. 
Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory. 
And lured me on to those inspiring toils 
By which man nuisters men ! For thee, 1 grew 
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages ! 
For thee, I sought to borrow from each Grace 
And every Muse such attributes as lend 
Ideal charms to Love. 1 thought of thee, 






And passion tauglit nie j(oesy, — of tlu;<;, 

And on llic |)aintei's canvas grew the life 

ijf beauty ! — Art tecame the slia»low 

Of the dear starlight of thy liaunting eyes ! 

Men called ine vain, — some, mad, — I heeded 

not ; 
But still toiled on, hoped on, — for it was sweet, 
If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee I 

At laiit, in one mad hour, 1 dared U> pour 
The thoughts that buret their channels into song. 
And scut them to thee, — such a tribute, lady. 
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. 
The name — apjwnded by the burning heart 
That longed to show its idol wluit bright things 
It ha<l created — yea, the enthusiast's name. 
That should have been thy triumph, was thy 

scom ! 
That very hour — when passion, turned t» wrath. 
Resembled hatred most ; when thy diwiain 
ilade my wliole soul a chaos — in that hour 
The tempters found me a revengeful U>o\ 
For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the 

wonn, — 
It turned, and stung thee ! 



It was the autumn of the year ; 
The strawberry, leaves were re<l and sear ; 
October's airs were fresh and chill. 
When, j>auslng on the windy hill. 
The hill that overlooks the sea, 
"you talkol confidingly to me, — 
Me whom your keen, artistic sight 
Has not yet learned to read aright, 
Since I have veiled my heart from you. 
And loved you better than you knew. 

You told me of your toilsome past ; 
The tardy honors won at last, 
The trials borne, the conquests gaine<l. 
The longed-for boon of Fame attained ; 
I knew that every Wctory 
But lifted you away from me, 
That every step of high emprise 
But left me lowlier in your eyes ; 
1 watched the distance as it grew, 
And loved you better than you knew. 

You did not see the bitter trace 
Of anguish sweep across my face ; 
You did not hear my proud heart beat, 
Heav)" and slow, beneath your feet ; 
You thought of triumph still unwon. 
Of glorious deeds as yet undone ; 

And 1, the while you talkwl to me, 
1 watched the gulLs Hoat lonesomely, 
Till lost amid the hungry blue, 
And loved you better than you knew. 

You walk the sunny side of fate ; 
The wise world smiles, and calls you great ; 
The golden fruitage of success 
Drops at your feet in plcnteousness ; 
And you have blessings manifold ; 
Kenown and jwwer and friends and gold, 
They build a wall l)ctween us twain, 
Which may not \x: thrown down again, 
Alas ! for I, the long years through, 
Have loved you l;etter than you knew. 

Your life's proud aim, your art's Iiigh truth. 
Have kept the promise of your youth ; 
And while you won the crown, which now 
Breaks into bloom u|K)n your brow, 
ily soul cried strongly out to you 
Across the ocean's yearning blue, 
While, unrememlwred and afar, 
1 watched you, as 1 wat<;h a star 
Through darkness struggling into view, 
And loved you better than you knew. 

I used to dream in all these years 

Of [Kitient faith and silent tears, 

That iMve's strong hand would put aside 

The barriers of place and pride, 

Would reach the pathless darkness through. 

And draw me softly up to you ; 

But that is past. If you should stray 

Beside my grave, some future day, 

Percliance the violets o'er my dust 

Will half l>etray their buried trust, 

And say, their blue eyes full of dew, 

"She loved you letter tlian you knew." 

Elizabeth akers Allen (Florence Percy). 



" How sweetly," said the trembling maid, 
Of her own gentle voice afraid. 
So long had they in silence stood, 
Ixioking ujKin that moonlight flood, — 
" How sweetly does the moonbeam smile 
To-night upon yon leafy isle ! 
Oft in my fancy's wanderings, 
I 've wished that little isle had wings, 
And we, within its fairy >x)wers, 

Were wafte<l off to seas unknown, 
Where not a pulse should beat but ours, 

And we might live, love, die alone ! 







WluMV tl>o Wijjitt i>v«>s of uuftvls only 
Sl\>>\iKI lOiuo aiw\n>l lis, to Ix-lioUl 

A ivkraiUsw so piuv «iul \oiiol_v ' 
WouKl t)>is I* woiUl I'lion^nh lor thw ! " — 
riii_Yl\il she tuvuwl, that ho lui^ht s»>e 

Tho (wssiii^s; s\»Uo hoi- ohook l>vit im ; 
l$Ht whoii sho lUiuktHl hv>\v i>i>>urul'ull,Y 

His oy«w un't hoi~s, that smilo was j^vwo ; 
,\\nl, btu'stivj; into h<'aitl'olt tears, 
" Yiv-i, yos," sho ovuhI, ■•my hourly fesu's, 
My (li-v^tuus, have Knlisl all to<> rij;lit, — 
Wo jwrt — foivvor \>«rt — tv>-nij;ht ! 
I know, 1 know it i\'m/i< not last, — 
"r was hiij;l»t, 't was Uivavouly, Imt 't is |>«st ! 
(.\ over thus, fivm ihiKlhiWs ho\»v, 

I "vo s«m« my I'oiulost hojHvs dw-ay ; 
1 itoYor lovwl a t«H> or tlowor 

U«t 't was Uie first to faUe away. 
I uovor intrsed a »l<vu' gaioUo. 

To jjlail me with its soft Waok ey«s 
l>ut whou it oame to know me well, 

.\i>vl love tue, it was s»\iv to die ! 
Now, tvHv, the joy tmxst like vliviue 

V^tall 1 ever ili\«mt or knew. 
To s<v th«\ hear thiv, oall thw mine, — 

Hvisevy ! must I K»se tAat t>H> ? 

ri40M.XS M0<.>Ktl 


Pf r the ^^^>^v^el'y-t^•ame away, 
Kor my sewing is all iloiie ! 

The last thiwul is usevl to-vlay. 
Ami I iietnl not join it on, 
Thotigh the ohvk stsuuls at the uooM, 
1 am weary ! 1 have s<>wh, 
Sweet, I'w thee, a w wUUng-gvwu. 

Sister, help me to the K^l, 

And stanvl neai- me, di^aivst -sweet ! 
VV not shrink nor he afftud, 

lUusliinjj with a smUlen heat ! 

No luie standeth in the street I — 

By Owl's love 1 g\^ to nnvt. 

Love 1 thee with h>ve evm\\Jete. 

Lean thy faee down '. divj> it in 
These two httnds, that I may hold 

Twixt their jvdms thy cheek and ehiu, 
Sttwkiug haok the exnls of j^ild, 
"T is a fair, fair I'aiv, in s^x»th, — 
l^arjp^r eyes and reildev month 
Th;u» mine werv in my first youth ! 

Thou art younger by seven years — 
Ah ! so hasht\tl at my guze 

That the laslies, hung with twirs, 
l)row too heavy to ujuiiise ; 
1 wviuld wound th<H> by no tonoh 
Wliieh thy shyness feels as s\U'h, — 
Oosi thou luiiul me, dwir, so mueh t 

Have I not lieen nigh a tnother 

To thy sweetnivss, — tell m<\ dear ! 

Have we i>ot lovtxl oue another 
Tenderly, fwm year to ytvar, 
Sinee onr dying mother mild 
Said, with aeeeuts nndeliliHl, 
" I'hild, K' itiother to this ehild ! " 

Mother, mother, vip in h«»ven. 
Stand ui> on the jasjH'r stvi, 

A>\d Ih> witness I have given 
All the gifts iv>iv>i»V\l of nu- ; — 
Uo|Hi that W<>ss<hI me, hliss that eivwuinl. 
Love tliat left me with n wound, 
Ijfe itself, that turueth ivund ! 

Mother, mother, thou art kind. 

Thou art standing in the twnr. 
In a molten glory shriued. 

That rays oil" into the gloom ! 

Hut thy smile is Ixright and Weak, 

lake eold wav<>s, — 1 eannot sii<\>k ; 

1 sob in it, and gi\>w weak. 

Ghostly mother, keep aloof 

One hour lo\ig»'r fivm n\y sv>ul, 
Kor I still am thinking of 

Karth's w!U'm-lH\»ting joy and dole ! 

0\i my linger is a ring 

Whieh 1 still se« glittering. 

When the night hides everything. 

little sister, thou art jwle ! 

Ah, 1 have a wandering laniu ; 
But I lose that fever-Kile, 

A\>d my thoughts g>vw ealm Kgaiu. 

Lean down closer, closer still ! 

1 have woi\ls thine ear to fill. 

And would kiss thet> at my will. 

l">eai\ 1 heiH\l thee in the spring, 
The<> and Kv^Wrt, thivngh the trees, 

AVheu we all went gathering 

Boughs of May-WvHm\ for the bees. 
1\> not start so ! tlrink instead 
lU«v the snnslune overhead 
Se<'med to trickle through the shade. 

What a day it was, that day ! 

Hills and vales did oiH'nly 
Seem to ht\«ve and thivb away. 

At the sight of the great sky ; 





200 r 

An/I th« Marvj;, a* it i!Vx>] 
Aw\My dill, l/u/l, — mul iiiul '. 

Thr'^ugh thft winding fuvlge-rows i^-mu, 
How v/i; vfun/Utrf/i, I ami yon, — 

With tin; (y/wery t/>j»» (shut in, 
An'l th/; gat*Ji tliat nhowfA ttw; vi<;w ; 
H'yw w<; Uith-A tiitm ! thninltm y/i'.\ 
Bang <jur imiiw* out, or oft 
filiiatings t/>'<k Ui«rn fro/n th/; «r'/('.. 

Till the plea«rir*, gtowit too istrong, 

I>!ft Hi* mullet i^vuniifif: ; 
An/1, tjw; win'iing f/a/l U;i/jg h/r<g, 

I viiiWuA out of tight, i/zifori; ; 

An/1 BO, wraj/t in mii>;ings fon'i, 

lnHUfA (irmt t)</; v/aysi/i* (<'//i<l; 

On tlift m«a/l//w-lan'l* t/eyon/l. 

I gat d//wn V»en/:ath the hee/jh 
W'hi/;h l/:an« ov';r to tlw; Ian';, 

An/1 tii/; fiir soun/1 of your isj'>ee/;h 
Di/1 riT/t firoiiiim any \mii ; 
An/1 I hl/assfl you, full an/l fr/;/;, 
With a Kmil/; nUj'/ii^i t«n<l/;rly 
O'er tlifc May-flz/weru on my kn*<;. 

But tlj* (iz/un/l gr'rtv iaUi word 
A« tl//; isj/zrakers <irew «i//r<; n*ar — 

Bweet, forgive nj* titat I h<;ar'l 
\S^lat you vf'us\ifA rn* not to hear. 
Do rj//t weep <•/>, dr/ n/>t (shak/; — 
0, 1 hear/1 tl/ee, Bertlia, make 
Ooo'l true an»wer« f//r rny hake, 

Ve«, an/1 lie t/f, '. let hir/i etand 

In thy tfi//ugl<t«, aiiUjwAifA by Warne. 

CouI/1 he help it, if n<y lian'l 

He ha4 elainie/l with liasty '.laim ' 
TiiHt wa» wr//ng f/erliapii, 1/ut th/;n 
8ii/;h thir/gji 1/; — an/i will, again I 
W//men cann/>t jadge for rnen, 

Ha/1 lift seam thee, when he (swore 
He wouU love but rrie al//ne ? 

Th/ju wert absent, — isent Mon 
To 'KIT kin in Kidnrwuth town. 
Wlien he saw th/;/;, who art h*st 
Pa*t /sornpare, and loveli/:«t. 
He but ju4ge<l thee a* the re*t, 

CV/tjH we blame him with grave woidit, 
Thou and I, dear, if we miglit ? 

Thy br//WB eye» have l'<ok» like bird* 
Klying straightway to the light : 
Mine are oWer, — Hu«h ; — look <rat — 
Cp tl<e istreet ! f* n'/ne withf/ot ? 
How the popUr Kwing* aJ/oat ; 

Aii/1 that hwir — Sihin^uMi u •• ■/•;)/ ii 

Wl(«n I VuiUiiifl ill a drean;, 
An/1 lie ual/l, in hix 'le^rp tjx->:' h, 

'I i,a'. IjI; OW'/J ;/,.: ail ««te«w< — 

1-j!/ ;, w'/c' >.■/..!//, i.'j '//I my brain 

Vi'it.J, a 'iu/i, 'Uimiir/_ j/ain, 

Till it t/iinit with that la«t istraln- 

( (ell Il/y/.le.l with a .lark, 
I n the mhii/n: </f a tw/x/n ; 

■'■ herj f fo^-e. fr^Tf,'!. '-o!'! ;?:;'} ^"•^.v-V, 

.>>eii»e/i t// ViOit*k*ii w/jal J rt;sw:, 

An/1 1 walked a* if a|/art 

Fr'/m wymlf when I 'y/uld stand. 
And I ;;;';e<! :r;v owr: heart, 

.- i,an/l 

'. a i»en»; 

Ai^i a " !'<>// li.,/,(j " negligence, 

Arj/1 1 answered 'y/l/lly t/y/, 

When voij rind me at tf/e door ; 

A(» ujy tiie. 

iiKifxlunii, lor mi:. 

1)0 not V 


It v/a. 

If I .: , . 

iiunjs VI laint in wonti.'. 

i;* -',-,; iiu>^, ■ 
I Wl died, ')■ 

IJfe'i! h/ng, jo. . . - y ,;ime 

Is t/A lotid for mv n/eek 6lia,'(ie, 

Thou art row //W, 

And r/jeant, vi;. .. ., 

Life'ii pure pUa«iire« manifold. 

I am pale ass 'ct'/c^v. '^if'ivi 
(Vli/tf: \iisguiii a roee-tree'i root f 

/ •( > k.\/kS of D2iHi*iH)L\r.\t ^ .V /• 


Twvxls> OIVOUS HIldlT IvWt i 

1, likp M!>y-1\Uh>ih >>u lluMivlivo, 
Tliou, liko moiTV sv<muu'i-ln><>,' 
Kil t\\M 1 l><> r»i lluH', 

Yot \\1\>> i>l>i>'ks n\o ' uvi >\in> m>>i\i'iis ; 
1 l\avo livrtl ii>_\ s<vt>s>>i> out, 

Auvl now \lio v>f ii\,v own thoins, 
Whioh 1 >-ouM not Uv* wiUionl. 
Sw.vl, tv mony ! Mow tho li^lK 
i\>u\(vs anil s^Hv» I ir it Iv nvjjlit, 
Kivi> tlio »>i»t»ll<>s in m^v' si^^shl-, 

Aiv t.l\piv (\H>tst<<i^ at tln> >UH>r ■ 
l,>»ok out ii«\ok\v, Yim, oi' u*,v f 

SoH\<> ono tni^itUt Ih> waitin^j; for 
Svnno last woi\i that I n\ij;l>t s;>_v. 
Nay ' So lx>st I So anjjx'ls woulvi 
Stand olV oU>iU' IVni >i««t.lil,v i\w4 
Not to oi\«s> sijjht of lirxl. 

l\\l.t<'i- j!r\>\v tivj- luu\ils ai\vi f«H<t, — 
WUon I w<>ar tlio sliivmd I luatK 

l«M tlio folds U<> stj-ai^isht and Hoat, 
A\ul< wvirtuavv Ih> s|m<ad, 
TUat if ai\v tVi<M»l shoviUl tvn>tv, 
(.To s»H> t^, sw«H>t !> all tho >\Hm» 
May Iv lil'linl out of jtUnxin, 

Ah>1, vl«>r Uortlia, li>t ino ktvp 
^^u luy hanvl this littlo liiij;, 

Whiv-h at nijjhts, wlu'n othocs sUh'JS 
I oat» still stv glittoiiu^i;, 
l^t nu> wMr it out of sijjht, 
lu th<> gravis — whiuv it will li^ht 
All th* vlsu'k »iis >Uv ajul uijjht, 

Oi\ that j;>t»vv> >h\>j> not a t«M- ! 

Klso, tUoujth fathon>-il<v|i tho )xlai"\\ 

Thivuj;h tho w\wlo»\ shivuvi I wxvu- 
I shall IWI it o\> my faiv, 
Rathor smilo thov\\ WinssihI v»n<>, 
'riiinkiu^i; of luo iu tho suii, — 
Or fo\>!:»'t m<s siuilinjt v>n ! 

Art thou n<\tr n\o ■ (uwvr ' sv> ! 
Kiss mo oUv!^< uiv>» tho oyos. 

That tho iv^rthly li^jht may J^> 
Swwtlv as it \>s«\i to ris»\ 
Whou I w;>toh<\l tho <m\nunjv jji'sy 
Strike K'twixt tho hills, tho way 
Uo was sur<> tv> ivuw that day. 

S\< — uo mow vain wotxls ho said ! 

Tho hivsauuas uoaivr roll 
Mothor. sniilo now ou thy dtN^d, — 

1 am d<>»th-«H\xuj; in i\>y s<»«l ' 

Mystio Dovo alit on owws, 
Ouido tho jKHir l\i(\l of tho tnowst 
'n»vnsl> tho anow-wind «K>vo lius I 

.losns, viotiui, ooiujux'hondinj; 

l.ovo's divino solt'-<»hni>){alion, 
Olwrnso uiy lovo iu its solf-snoudiug, 

And aKsorb tho i>oor liK'ition ! 

\Viu>l u\y thiwid of lifo u\\ hi^hor, 

l'j> thiMU^h auj»»>ls" hands of liiv ! ■ 

1 aspiiv wliilo 1 oxjuiv ! • - 

tUljAUlun lUKKI'ir llKOWMNv;, 


fROM " nviii.i'rH ' 

Vioi_\. Ay, l>«t I know - 

UvKK. Wltat d<vit thou know f 

Yloi.,v. TiH> woU what lovo womon to m«ii 
tnay owo ; 
In faith, thoy aiv as trno of lnvirt as w*. 
My fathov had a daujslilor lov«d a iua«. 
As it mi^itht Iv. jH-rhaivs. wow I a wvMutui, 
\ should Yoiu' lowlship- 

Ot'KK, Auvl what 's hor history > 

Yiv>i.,\, .\ Wank, nty Uml. Sho tiovw told 
hor lov»\ 
l^ut lot >vuiH\>l\uont, liko a worm i" tho bud. 
Fo«kI v>n hor dau\ask oluvk ; sho piuivl in thoti^ht ; 
.\«d. with a j!ixv\> an>i voUow luolanolioly, 
Sho Silt liko l^^tionoo ou a \uouu\uont, 
SiuiUn)» at ,»;riot'. Was not this lovo, indtVHl > 
Wo u>on \u;»y sj>y moiv. sw<>ar n>oix> ; hut, indotnl, 
t^ur shows aw mo>x< than will ; fvw still wo \>imt» 
Much iu our vows, hut littlo iu our lovo. 



In tho low-ml^oixxl j!?irix>t, stwinng 

Cajvfully ovor tho onwkiiij; K>a»\ls, 
Old Maid IXuvthy J^HVi a-};>x»l> 

.Vmonjt its dusty and wlvwvhly>d hosuxls ; 
SiHvkiuj; somo hnuvUo of n*toh»\<. hid 

Far uudor tho <>av<>s. or Imuoh of s;vjn\ 
Or s;>tohol huivjt ou its nail, amid 

Tho hoirhnuns of a hygvMio .'«)^\ 

Thow is tho aj\oiout family v-host. 

Tl\or<> tho auiH>st«il oarvls .■u\d hatohd ; 
lX>rv<thy, si^hi\\sj. siuks down tx> r<xst. 

For)^'tl\>l of jvatv-hos. s.'^-. and satohol. 
Ohosts of fa>\>s jwr IVmu tho );h>»>u» 

Of tho ohimuoy. who>x\ with swills imd reel. 
Aud tho lou^^^disusovl. dismantl^l Uhmu. 

Stsuids tho old-fashiomsl spinuiuji-wlxisl. 








She sewi it t«i/;k in tlje cUan-»wept kiU-liKU, 

A i<art <jf iter girll»'>o'l'i> little worW ; 
Her mutimr i* tlierc by tiic «fi«ilow, stil<;liiijg ; 

Sj(in<lie buzzeti, awl reel ix wiiirl":-! 
With iiiany a i;li';k ; on her litth; jsUxjI 

She »sit«, a ehiW, l/y tli* ojjen <hx)r, 
Wal/jliing, and <laljUing her feet in the i>o<jl 

Of sunshine Hpilled on the gihled fto</r. 

Her 8ist<:r» are spinning all 'lay long ; 

To l»";r wakening seiuse the fiiist swe«t warning 
Of daylight com* is the <:Uv:tiiil wng 

To tlie hurn of the wheel in the early murning. 
Benjie, the gentle, fA-cliKtikiA iioy. 

On his way to school, i*(;i« in at tlie gate ; 
In n<ait white pinafore, plea«*l and <x<y, 

Sli* r<;a/;hjes a band to her l^ashful njaV: ; 

And un'ler the elms, a prattling i«ir, 

Togeth/;r they go, through glinu/ier and 
gloom : — 
It all comes W;k to lier, dr'aming tl/ere 

In the low-raftere'l garret- r'xwn ; 
The hum of tli« wh/*l, an*! the summer w'aither, 

The luart'* first trouble, an/1 love's Ijeginning, 
Are all in her mem/yry link'^l Vignher ; 

And n'/w it is she lte;'self that is spinning. 

With the bloom of youth on eheek and lip, 

Tuniing the sjx^kes with th<; flashing pin, 
Twhiting the threa/1 from the spindk-tip. 

Stretching it out and windirjg it in. 
To and fro, with a blithesome trea4. 

Singing she g'>es, and her heart i» full. 
And many a long-<lrawn gohien thread 

Of fancy is spun with the shining wooL 

Her father sit* in his favorite pla/*. 

Puffing his pijje by the ehimneynBi'le ; 
Through curling clou'ls hi» kindly face 

Glows ujwn her with hyve an<l f/ride. 
Lalle<l by the wheel, in tfje oU arm-eliair 

Her motlier is musing, cat in lap. 
With beautiful droof/ing liirad, and Iiair 

Whitening under her snow-whit/; cap. 

One 1^ one, to the grave, to the bri'lal. 

They Ijave folkiwe'l her sist/rrs from the door : 
^ow they are ol'l, and she is their i<iol : — 

It all comes Ijack on her heart once more. 
In the autumn dusk the hearth glearuK brightly. 

The wh«el is set by the (ha/lowy wall, — 
A liand at the UtcU, — 't is lift*/l lightly. 

And in walks Benjie, manly and talL 

His cJiair is placed ; the old rnan tij/s 
The pitcher, and bringx his choi'jwst fruit ; 

Benjie basks in the hLaze, and sij/s. 
And tells hi« Btoty, and joints his flute ; 

O, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laugljter ! 

They fill the hour with a glowing ti'le ; 
liut sweeter the still, di^ep moments after. 

When sh<; i» alone by ISenjie's side. 

liut once with angry wor'hs they ]<ajt : 

O, then the weary, weary days : 
Kver with restless, wrebclje'l heart, 

I'lying her task, she turns to gaze 
Far up the roa<l ; and early and late 

fthe liarks for a f'X^tetep at tlie d'wr. 
And starts at the gujst tliat swings tV; gate, 

And prays for IJenjie, who wwes no more. 

Her fault < Benji*;, and ' 

Your thoughts toward out • 
H'/ia/.'i she »<:eki! in tlie whiiii;.^ 

In duty and love tliat ligliten y-'j-- ; 
Striving with ]«'/'..■■, r.'/- ::. v: ::.. 

To drive aw^ 
IJlessing the • 

OfadeeiXf),; .,•■.. 

I'roud and jjetted and ispoile'l was she : 

A word, and all her life is ehanged '. 
His wavering love U/ij easily 

In the gr'ait, ^ay <■!••.' «■"•»- "~*rar!«ed : 
Ojie year ; sii' 

A rustle, a : 
Your fW;* an • •■ '■ 

"V is Benjie naniu.g a^-.- it*.'i .M^.ie ! 

Xow father and mother i.»v.; >/;.l' vr-ru dea/1. 

And the bride sleej yard hVim, 

And a bent old mau id 

Walks up the long 'ua, ai ,■; a.Mie. 
Years blur to a mist ; and iJorotby 
1 ftits doubting Ijetwixt the gli'wt she secHiS 
i And the phantom of youth, more real titan she, 
I That meets her there in that Ijaunt of drear/is. 

Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter, 

Sought by many a youthful a/iorer, 
Life, like a new-risen dawn on tlje water, 

Shining an endless vista l>:fore Iter ! 
Old Maid fJorothy, wrinkled and gray. 

Groping under the fann-house eaves, — 
And life is a brief Novem5>;r 'lay 

That set* 'yn a world of withered leaves ! 

Yet fjaithfulness in the humblest j/art 
Is better at last than proud su'^^/rss. 
And patience and love in a chas-ten<^ heart 

Are j)ear!« rry; 
And ■■ 


And iiie,Ji/iig j 

^■sppinew ; 
: wake 
-th again. 

■^ ',u tlie }>ane. 

KB T Tk 







Kiss m>', thoujih you \ni\ko l*lieve ; 

Kiss me, though 1 iilim>si know 
You int> kissing to (lovoivo : 

Lot till' tiilo ouii moiuiMit How 
l>iukw!U\l ore it viso ami l>n>«k, 
Ouly I'oi' jioor pity's sjiko ! 

Oivti uie of your Mowers one le-!«f, 
tiive me of your sutiles one smile, 

Ivukwtiul roJl this tide of grief 
Just a moment, though, the while, 

1 shouKl feel and almost know 

You are trilling with my woe. 

Whisper to rae sweet aiul low ; 

Toll mo how you sit ami weave 
l>i\ams about mo, though I know 

It is only make iH'lieve ! 
Just a miunent, though 't is plain 
You are jesting with my jwin. 

ALICB Carv. 


I i.KX r my love a Kx>k one ilay ; 

She hreught it baok ; 1 laid it by ; 
"r was little either had to say, — 

She W!>s so strange, and 1 so slty. 

But yet we loved indilfereiit things, — 
The spreuting buds, the l>ii\ls in tune, — 

And Time stow! still and wreathed his wings 
With i\>sy links from June to June. 

For her, what task to dare or do • 
What iH<ril tempt > what hai\lship bear ? 

But witli her — ah ! she never knew 
My hoiUt, and what was hidden there ! 

And she, with me, so cold and eoy, 
S<'emsHl a little maid liereft of sense ; 

lUit in the erewd, tUl life and joy, 
And full of blushful impudemt.'. 

She marrieil, — well, — a woiuan needs 
A mate, her life and love to sliare, — 

And little oaiws sprang up like woihIs 
And played iux>uud her elliow-ohair. 

And yeai-s relUnl by, — but I, content, 
'IViiumod my own lamjs and kept it blight, 

TUl agt>"s tiHuh my hair Wspivnt 
With rays and gleams of silver light. 

.\ud then it ehance^l 1 tiH>k the Kx>k 
Whioh she jieruseil in days gvuio by ; 

And Sis 1 r<»ad, such jwssion sluwk 
>lv soul, — 1 netnls luust ouise or crv. 

For, here and tJiere, her love was writ. 
In old, half-faded iieneil-signs. 

As if slie yielded — hit by bit — 
Her heart in dots and \inderlines. 

Ah, silvered fool, too late you look I 
1 know it ; let me here reeonl 

This ma.\ira : Zuitii ito ffirl a book 
L'nleis i)ou read i<<»y?ei"MY«rt/.' 


OxLv a woman's right-hand glove. 

Five and three tiuarters, Courvoisior's n\nke, — 
For all eouimou puriH>ses useless enough. 

Yet dwuvr for her sweet ssike. 

Dearer to me for her who tilled 

Its empty place witii a warm white hand, — 
The hand I held ere her voice was stilled 

In the slwp trf the silent land. 

Only a glove ! yet sivaking to me 

Of the dear dead days now vanishes! and ttovl, 
And the face that 1 never again sliall see 

Till the grave give Ixick its dead. 

An empty glove ! yet to me how full 

Of the fragiiuu'e of days that come no more. 

Of memories that make us, and thoughts that 
Man's life in its inmost core ! 

The tone of her voice, the jKiise of her head, — 
All, all come liaek at the will's liehest : 

The music she lovtnl, the Kwks tlnit she read, — 
Nay, the colors that suitinl her Ivst. 

And 0, that night by the wild sea-sliore. 
With it* tears, and kisses, and vows of love. 

When, as phslge of the jwrting premise we swore, 
Kach gave a glove for a glove ! 

You langh .' but remeniKir though only a glove. 
Which to you may no deciier meaning express. 

To me it is changed by the light of that love 
To Jhe one swtwt thing I jkvssoss. 

Our souls vlraw their nurture from many a giwiiid. 
And faiths that are different in their ivots. 

Where the will is right, and the heart is sound. 
Are much the siune in their fruits. 

Men gi>t at the truth by ililVerent roads. 
And must live the jvart of it each one sees : 

You gather your guides out of ovthwlox cinles, 
I miuo out of tritUs like those. 






A triHe, no doubt, but, in such a case. 
So l^th'5'1 in the light of a love gone by, 

It lias enUrred the region and takes its place 
With the things that cannot die, 

ThLs trifle to uie is of heavenly birth ; 

No chance, as I take it, but purjx>sely given 
To help me to sit soinewliat looser to earth. 

And closer a little to heaven. 

For it seems to bring me so near, O, so near 
To the face of an angel wat<.hiug above, — 

That fa<;« of all othere I held m dear. 
With its yearning eyes of love I 



Have you sent her bai;k her letters ? have you 

given her Ijack her ring ? 
Have you tried to forget the haunting songs that 

you loved to hear her sing ? 
Have youcuj-soltheilay you met her first, thank c I 

Go<i that you were free. 
And said, in your inmost heart, as you though;, 

" She never was dear to me" t 
You have <.aist her off; your j^ride is touched ; you 

fancy that all is done ; 
That for you the world is brightagain, and bravely 

shines the sun : 
Vou have w^ished your hands of passion ; you 

have whistled her down the wind, — 
Tom, old friend, this goes before, the sharjwst 

comes l>;hind ! 
Yes, the sliar]»es-t is yet to corne, for love is a plant 

that never dies ; 
Its roots are deep as the earth itself, its branches 

wide as the skies ; 
And whenever once it has taken hold, it flourish'js 

Biiaring a fruit that is fair outside, but bitter ashes 

at core. 

You will learn this, Tom, hereafter ; when anger 

lias cooled, and you 
Have time for introspection, you will find my 

wor'ls are true : 
You will sit and gaze in your fire alone, and fancy 

that you can see 
Her fa<?*, with its classic oval, her ringlets flut- 
tering free, 
Her Sfjft blue eyes wide opened, her sweet red 

lijw apart, 
As she used to look, in the golden days when 

you fancied she ha^l a heart : 
Whatever you do, wherever you turn, you will 

see that glorious face 
Coming with shadowy Ijeauty, to haunt all time 

and Bjjace ; 

I Those songs you wrote for her singing will sing 
I themselves into youj- biaiii. 

Till your life seems set to their rhythm, and your 

thoughts to their refi-4in; 
Their old, old burden of love and grief, — the jias- 

sion you have foresworn : 
I tell you, Tom, it is not thiowu off so well a.s 
', you think, this moi-n. 

But the worst, perhaps the worst of all, will 1* 
, when the day has flowii. 
When liarkness tavore reflection, and your coni- 

raxies l<-ave you alone ; 
You will try to sleep, but the memories of unfor- 

gotten yeare 
Will come with a storm of wild regret, — mayliap 

with a storm of ti:sirs ; 
Kach li><.ik, eaf.h wor'i, ea/.h jdaj-ful tijim, each 
I timid little '^ress. 

The golden gleam of her ringlets, the rustling of 

her dress. 
The deli'jate touch of her ungloved hand, that 

woke such an exquisite thrill. 
The flowers she gave you the night of the 1 :.;;. — 

I think you treasuie them still, — 
All these will come, till you slumljer, v.oni ■ ,t 

by sheer desi/aii, 
And then you will hear %'ague echoes of son;; on 

the darkened air, — 
I Vague echoes rising and falling, of the Voice you 

know so well. 
Like the songs that were sung by the Lurlei maids, 
I sweet with a deadly sjxill ! 
In dreams her heart will ever again be yours, and 

you will see 
Fair glimpses of what might have been, — what 

now can never be ; 
A nd as she comes to meet you, with a sudden, wild 
I unrest 
You will stretch your arms forth lovingly to fold 

her to your bi-east : 
But the I,urlei song will fade and die, and with 

its fading tone 
You will wake to find you clasp the thin and 

emjrty aii alone, 
■While the fire-bells' clanging dissonance, on the 

gusty night-wind Ixjme, 
AVill S(=em an iron-tougued demon's voice, laugh- 
ing your grief to scorn. 
Tom, you say it is over, — you talk of letters 

and rings, — 
Do you think that Love's mightj' spirit, then, is 

held by such trifling things ? 
No ! if you on<ic have truly loved, you will still 

love on, I know, 
Till the churchyanl myrtles blossom alxive, and 

vou lie mute Ijelow, 

• — i — »-i 




How is it, 1 wonder, hei-e«ltt'r ? Kaith touches 

us littlo, here. 
Of tho Olios wo have loved and lost on enitli, — 

do you think they will still ho dear ! 
SliiUl wo live the lives we iiiij;ht have lead ? — 

will those who ar* seveitxl now 
lu'iiuniticv the [iledgoof a lower sjihere, and renew 

the hivkou vow ! 
It almost drives nie wild to think of the gifts 

we throw away, 
Uiithinkinj; whether or no wo lose Life's honey 

and wine for aye ! 
liut then, agiiin, 't is a mighty joy — groater tlian 

I can tell — 
To trust that the ^wrted may some time meet, — 

that all may again he well. 
However it he, 1 hold, that all tho evil we know- 
on earth 
Finds in this violeiuo done to I.ove its true and 

legitimate hirth ; 
And the agtuiies wo sullor, when the heart is left 

For even- sin of Humanity should fully and well 


1 see tliut yon marvel givatly, Tom, to hoar siieli 

wonls fixuu me, 
But, if you knew my inmost heart, 't would he no 

Exiierioiiee is bitter, hut its teaohings w-o retain : 
It has tjuight mo this, — who onee has loveil, 

loves never on earth again ! 
And 1 too have my closet, with a ghastly form 

inside, — 
The skeleton of a perislRxi love, killed by a cruel 

jnide : 
1 sit Vy the fire at evening — as yon will some 

time sit. 
And watch, in the nvseato halfdight, the ghosts of 

happiness Hit ; 
I too awaken at midnight, and stretch mv arms 

to enfold 
A vague and shadowy image, w-ith t resses of brown 

and gidd ; 
Kxperieiice is bitter indeed, — I have learned at 

a heavy cost 
The secret of Love's ixn-sistency : 1 too have loved 

and lost ! 



CoMKAPES, leave me lieiv a little, while as yet 

't is early morn, — 
Leave me here, and when you want mc, sound 

upon the bugle horn. 

"T is the place, and all aivuiul it, as of old, the 

curlews call. 
Dreary gleams about tho mooiliuid, living over 

Loi'ksley Hall : 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks tho 
sandy tracts. 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cata- 

Many a night frem yonder ivied casement, ore I 

went to ivst, 
Uid 1 look on great i->rion sloping slowly to tlio 


Many a night 1 saw tho I'lciads, rising through 

tho mellow sliade, 
lilittor like a swarm of lire-llios tangled in a silver 


Here ahoul tho bench I wandered, nourishing a 

youth suhlime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long 

result of time ; 

When the lonturics behind me like a fruitful 

land reposed ; 
When I oluug to all the present for the promise 

that it closed ; 

When 1 dipt into the future far a.s luinuui eye 

could see, — 
S)>w- the vision of the world, and all the wonder 

that would be. 

In tlie Spring a fuller orimsou comes in>oii the 

robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 

another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the hur- 

iiishod dove ; 
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns 

to tlioughts of love. 

Then her cheek w-as pale and thinner than should 

bo for one so young. 
And her eyes on all my motions with a iiiut* 

ol>servance hung. 

And 1 said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and siieak 

the truth to me ; 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being 

sets to thee. " 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color 

and n light, 
j\s 1 have seen the rosy red Hushing in tho north 

ern night. 







AdJ she turned, — her bosom shaken witli a sud- 
den storm of sighs ; ! 

AJl the siiiiit dc-cply dawning in tlie dark of liazel 
,-yn, -^ 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing tliey 

should do nic wrong " ; 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin I " weeping, 

" 1 have loved thee long." 

Ijove took uji the glass of time, and turned it in 

his glowing hands ; 
Eveiy moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 


Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all 

the chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, tliat, trembling, passed 

in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the 

copses ring. 
And her whisper thronged my pulses with the 

fullness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the 

stately 3hip.s, 
And our spirits rushed together at the touching 

of the lips. 

my cousin, shallow-hearted ! my Amy, 

mine no more ! 
0, the drear}', dreary moorland ! O, the barren, 

barren shore ! 

What is thLs? his eyes are heavy, — think not 

they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him ; it is thy duty, — kiss him ; take his 

liand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain Is 

overwrought, — 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, toudi him 

with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to 

understand, — 
Better thou wcrt dead before me, though I slew 

thee with my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 

heart's disgrace. 
Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last 


Cursed be the social wants that sin against the 

strength of youth 1 
Cursed be the social lies that waq) us from the 

living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly fonus that err from honest 
nature's rule ! 

Cursed Ije the gold that gilds tlie straitened fore- 
head of tlie fool ! 

Well — 't is well that I should bluster ! — Ha<lst 

tliou less unwoithy proved, 
Would to Cod — for I had loved thee more tliau 

ever wile was loved. 


Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs 

have sung, — 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a 

shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wisli thee happy ? — having known 

me — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart 

than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shall lower to his level day 
by day. 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sym- 
pathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is ; thou art mated 

with a clown. 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight 

to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have 

spent its novel force. 
Something better than his dog, a littlo dearer 

than his horse. 

Am I iriad, that 1 sliouhl cherish that which l>ears 

Iml bitter fruit ? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart 

be at the root. 

Never ! though my mortal summers to such length 
of years should come 

As the many-wintered crow tliat leads the clang- 
ing rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of 

the mind ? 
Can 1 jjart her from herself, and love her, as I 

knew her, kind ? 

I remember one that perished ; sweetly did she 

speak and move ; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was 

to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the 

love she bore ? 
No, — she never loved me tnily ; love is love for- 







Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ! this is truth 

the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering 

happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou leam it, lest thy 

heart be put to proof. 
In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain 

is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams ; and thou art 

staring at the wall, 
^Vliere the dying night-lamp flickers, and the 

shadows rise and fall. 

What is that which I should turn to, ligliting 

upon days like these ? 
Everj- door is barred with gold, and opens but 

to goldtin keys. 

Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the mar- 
kets overflow. 

I have but an angry fancy ; what is that which 
I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foe- 
man's gi'ound. 

When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the 
winds are laid with sound. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to : But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt 

his drunken sleep, 
To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears 
that thou wilt weep. 

that honor feels, 
And the nations do but munnur, snarling at each 
other's heels. 

Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whispered Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that 

by the phantom years, i earlier page. 

And a song from out the distance in the ringing Hide me from my deep emotion, thou won- 

of thine ears ; 

And an eye shall ve.x thee, looking ancient Icind- 

ness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get thee to 

thy rest again. 

drous mother-age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation tliat I felt 

before the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the 

tumidt of my life ; 

Nay, but nature brings thee solace ; for a tender 1 Yearning for the large excitement that the com- 
voice will cry ; I ing years would yield, 

'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his 
trouble dry. i father's field. 

Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latest rival And at night along the dusky highway near and 

brings thee rest, — ] nearer drawn. 

Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the j Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like 

mother's breast. I a dreary dawn ; 

0, the child too clothes the father with a dear- j And his spirit leaps within him to he gone be- 

ness not his due. | fore him then, 

Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy : Underneath the light lie looks at, in among the 

of the two. throngs of men ; 

0, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty j Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reap- 

With a little horde of maxims preaching down a 
daughter's heart. 

ing something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the 
things that they shall do : 


" They were dangerous guides the feelings — she For I dipt into the future, far as human eye 

lierself was not exempt — , could see. 

Truly, she herself had suffered — " Perish in ! Saw the vision of the world, and nil tlie wonder 

thy self-contempt ! { that would be ; 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! wherefore , Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of 

should I care ? i magic sails, 

I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down 

despair. I with costly bales ; 





Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on sueh a 

rained a ghastly dew I mouldered string ? 

From the nations' airy navies grappling in the I am shamed through all my nature to have loved 

central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- 
wind rushing warm, 

With the standards of the peoples plunging 
through the thunder-stonn ; 

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the 

battle-flags were furled 
In the parliament of man, the federation of the 


Tiicre the common sense of most shall hold a 
fretful realm in awe, 

And the kindly earth shall slimiher, lapt in uni- 
versal law. 

so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's 

pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 

shallower brain ; 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 

matched with mine, 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water 

unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah 

for .some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life 

began to beat ; 

So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping tlirough Where in -irild Mahratta-battle fell my fatlier, 
me left me dry, ' evil-staiTed ; 

Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with 
the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are 

out of joint. 
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on 

from point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creep- 
ing niglier. 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly 
dying lire. 

Yet I doulit not through the ages one increasing 
purpose runs 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 

Or to burst all links of habit, — there to wander 

far away. 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the 

day, — 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 

happy skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 

knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an Eumpcan 
H^ig. — 

And the thoughts of men are widened with the Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the 


process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his 

youthful joys. 
Though the deep heart of existence beat forever 

like a boy's ? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers ; and I 

linger on the shore. 
And the individual withers, and the world is more 

and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he 
liears a laden breast. 

Full of sad experience moving toward the still- 
ness of his rest. 

Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sounding on 

the bugle horn, — 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target 

for their scom ; 

trailer from the crag, — 

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the 

heavy-fruited tree, — 
Sunimerisles of Eden lyingin dark-purple spheres 

of sea. 

There, methinks, would be enjojTnent more than 

in this march of mind — 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts 

that shake mankind. 

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have 

scope and breathing-space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my 

dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and 

tliey shall run. 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and huil tlirir 

lances in the sun. 





Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rain- 
bows of the brooks, 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable 
books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my 

words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 

Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 

glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast 

with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage, — what to me were 

sun or clime ? 
I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of 

time, — 

1, that rather held it better men should perish 

one by one. 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's 

moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, for- 
ward let us range ; 

Let the great world spin forever down the ring- 
ing grooves of change. 

Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into 

the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 


Mother-age (for mine I knew not), help me as 
when life begun, — 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the light- 
nings, weigh the sun, — 

0, I see the orescent promise of my spirit hath 

not set ; 
Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my 

fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 

Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the 

roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over 

heath and holt. 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a 


Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or 

fire or snow ; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and 

I go. 

Alfred tennvson. 


■■ she loves with love that cannot tire : 
And if. ah, woe : she loves alone. 
Through passionate duty love flames higher. 
As grass grows taller round a stone " 


So, the truth 's out. I 'U grasp it like a snake, — 
It will not slay me. My heart shall not break 
Awhile, if only for the children's sake. 

For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed ; 
None say, he gave me less than honor claimed. 
Except — one trifle scarcely worth being named— 

The heart. That 's gone. The corrupt dead 

might be 
As easily raised up, breathing, fair to see. 
As he could bring his whole heait back to me. 

1 never sought him in coquettish sport, 
Or courted him as silly maidens court, 
And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. 

1 only loved him, — any woman would : 
But shut my love up till he came and sued, 
Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood. 

I was so happy I could make him blest ! — 

So happy that I was his first and best. 

As he mine, — when he took me to his breast. 

Ah me ! if only then he had been true ! 

If, for one little year, a month or two. 

He had given me love for love, as was my due ! 

Or had he told me, ere the deed was done, 
He only raised me to his heart's dear throne — 
Poor substitute — because the queen was gone ! 

0, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss 
Was wann upon my mouth in fancied bliss. 
He had kissed another woman even as this, — 

It were less bitter ! Sometimes I could weep 
To be thus cheated, like a child asleep, — 
Were not my anguish far too dry and deep. 

So I built my house upon another's ground ; 
Mocked with a heart just caughtat the rebound,— 
A cankered thing that looked so firm and sound. 

And when that heart grew colder, — colder still, 

1, ignorant, tried all (luties to fulfil. 
Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will, 

All, — anything but him. It was to be 
The full draught others drink up carelessly 
Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. 





1 say again, — he gives me all I claimed, 
I and iny cliildreu never shall be shamed : 
He is a just man, — he will live unblaraed- 

Only — God, God, to cry for bread, 
And get a stone ! Daily to lay my head 
Upon a bosom where the old love 's dead ! 

Dead ? — Fool ! It never lived. It only stirred 
Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. None heard : 
So let me bury it without a word. 

He '11 keep that other woman from my sight. 
I know not if her face be foul or bright ; 
1 only know that it was his delight — 

As his was mine ; I only know he stands 
I'ale, at the touch of their long-severed hands. 
Then to a flickering smile his lips commands. 

Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show. 
He need not. When the ship 's gone down, I trow', 
We little reck whatever wind may blow. 

And so my silent moan begins and ends : 

No world's laugh or worhl's taunt, no pity of 

Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. 

None knows, — none heeds. 1 have a little pride ; 
Enough to stand up, wifelike, by his side. 
With the same smile as when I was his bride. 

And I shall take his children to my arms ; 
They will not miss these fading, worthless charms ; 
Their kiss — ah ! unlike his — all pain disarms. 

And haply as the solemn years go by. 

He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh, 

The other woman was less true than I. 




Wheel me into the sunshine, 

^\^leel me into the shadow, 

There must be leaves on the woodliine, 

Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow ' 

^^Tieel me down to the meadow, 

Down to the little river, 

In sun or in shadow 

I shall not dazzle or shiver, 

I shall be happy anywhere, 

Everv' breath of the morning air 

Makes me throb and quiver. 

Stay wherever you will. 

By the mount or under the hill. 

Or down by the little river : 
Stay as long as you please. 
Give me only a bud from the trees, 
Or a blade of grass in moming dew, 
Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, 
I could look on it forever. 

Wheel, wheel through the sunshine. 
Wheel, wheel through the shadow ; 
There must be odors round the pine. 
There must be balm of breathing kine. 
Somewhere down in the meadow. 
Must I choose ? Then anchor me there 
Beyond the beckoning poplars, where 
The larch is snooding her floweiy hair 
With wreaths of morning shadow. 

Among the thickest hazels of the brake 

Perchance some nightingale doth shake 

His feathers, and the air is full of song ; 

In those old days when I was young and strong, 

He used to sing on yonder garden tree, 

Beside the nursery. 

Ah, I remember how I loved to wake. 

And find him singing on the selfsame bough 

(I know it even now) 

Where, since the flit of bat. 

In ceaseless voice he sat, 

Tiying the spring night over, like a tune. 

Beneath the vernal moon ; 

And while I listed long. 

Day rose, and still he sang, 

And all his stanchless song, 

.\s something falling unaware. 

Fell out of the tall trees lie sang among. 

Fell ringingdown the ringingmorn, and rang, — 

Bang like a golden jewel down a goldi-ii stair. 

My soul lies out like a basking hound, — 

A hound that dreams and dozes ; 

Along my life my length I lay, 

I fill to-morrow and yesterday, 

I am warm with the sunsthat have longsinceset, 

I am warm with the summers that are not yet. 

And like one who dreams and dozes 

Softly afloat on a sunny sea. 

Two worlds are whispering over me, 

And there blows a %vind of roses 

From the backward shore to the .sliorc before. 

From the shore before to the backward shore, 

And like two clouds that meet and pour 

Each through each, till core in core 

A single self reposes. 

The nevermore with the evermore 

Above me mingles and closes ; 

As my soul lies out like the basking hound, 

And wherever it lies seems happy ground. 







Ami whoii, nwukciiwl liy soiiu' swot't souuii, 

A ilroainy oyo uudosos, 

1 soc a liliiomin}; woi'lii around, 

Aiul 1 lie amid luimrosos, — 

Voai-s of sweot jirimrosos, 

Spriiii^s of fresh pi'iinnisos, 

Sin-iiisp to lu>, ami s|>riiigs for me 

or distant lUiii lU'iuuosi'S. 

O, to li.' a-divam, a-.livam, 

'I'll fci'l 1 may divam ami to Umnv you doem 

My woi'k is done forovoi', 

And the iialintatiuj; lover, 

That gains and loses, loses and gsiiiis. 
And heats the hurrying blood on the hrunt of a 
thousand pains, 

(.'ooled at om'e hy that Mood-let 

Upon the parapet ; 
And all the tedious taski^'d toil of the dillicult long 

Solved and ipiit hy no nioiv line 

Thai! these limbs of unne. 

Spanned and measured onee for all 

Hy that right-hand 1 lost, 

liought up at so light a eost 

As one bloody fall' 

On the soldier's bed, 

.And thnui days on the ruined wall 

Among the thirstless dead. 

0, to think my name is erost 

From duty's nuister-roll ; 

That 1 may slumber though the clarion call, 

.And live the joy of an embodied soul 

l''ree as a liberated ghost. 

t >. to feel a life of deed 

Was emptied out to feed 

That liiY of |vuii that burned so brief awhile, — 

That lire fivni which 1 eonie, as the dead eomo 

Forth from the irreparable tondi. 

Or as a martyr on his funeral pile 

Heaps up the burdens other men do bear 

Thi-ongh yeai's of segregjitetl eaiv. 

Ami takes the totalload 

I'pon his shouldei-s broad, 

.And steps from earth to God. 

And she, 

Ferhaps, even she 

May look as she looked when 1 knew her 

In those old days of childish sooth. 

Ere my boyhood darod to woo her. 

I will not seek nor sue her, 

For 1 'm neither fonder nor truer 

Thau when she slighted my lovelorn youth, 

Mv giftless, graceless, guinetdess truth. 

And 1 only lived to rue her. 

Hut I '11 never lov» another. 

And, in spite of her lovei-s and lands, 
She shall love me yet, uiy brother ! 

As a child that holds by his mother, 

White his mother speaks his pitiises, 

Holds with eager hands, 

And ruddy and silent stands 

In the ruddy and silent daisies. 

And hears her bless her boy. 

And lifts a wondering joy, 

So 1 '11 not seek nor sue her. 

But I U leave mv glorv to woo her, 

And I '11 stand like a chihl beside. 

And fnim behind the purple pride 

1 'U lift my eyes unto her. 

Ami I shall not be denied. 

And you will love her, brother ihnv. 

And perhaps next year you '11 bring me here 

All through the balmy April tide. 

And she will trip like spring by my side, 

And be all the biixis to my ear. 

And here all three we 'II sit in the sun, 

And see the Aprils one by one, 

Frimrosed Aprils on and on, 

Till the lloating prospect closes 

'In golden glimmei-s that rise and rise. 

And perhaps nro gleams of r.iradise. 

And perhaps too far for mortal eyes, 

New springs of fresh primroses, 

Springs of earth's primroses. 

Springs to be and springs for me 

Of distant dim primroses. 




Wave after wave of greenness rolling down 
From mountain top to base, a whispering sea 
Of atlluent leaves through which the viewless 
Murmui-s mvsteriously. 

And towering up amid the lesser throng, 
A giant oak, so desolately gi-iuul, 
Stixitohcs its gray imploring arms to heaven 
In agonized demand. 

Smitten by liglitaiing from a summer sky, 
Or bearing in its heart a slow decay, 

j 'WlMt matter, since inexorable fate 

I Is pitiless to slay. 

Ah, waywaril sonl, hedged in and clothed about. 
Doth not thy life's lost hope lift np its head. 
And, dwarting present joys, proclaim aloud, — 

" Look on me, I am dead !" 
" Marv Louise Ritter. 






TiiK wanton tro<>i>trB, riding by, 

Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 

L'ngentlr; men I tliey cannot thrive 

Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, 

Tliem any harm ; ala-s ; nor could 

Thy death yet do them any gwxl. 

I 'm sure I never wished them ill, — 

Xor do I for all this, nor will ; 

But if my simple prayers may yet 

Prevail with H<siven to forget 

Thy murder, I will join my tears, 

Katlier than fail, iiut, O my fears ! 

It cannot die so. Heaven's king 

Ke^ijis register of everything ; 

And nothing may we ase in vain ; 

Even l*asts must >x; with justice slain, — 

Else men are made their deodands. 

Though they should their guilty hand-s 

In this warm life-blood, which doth jtart 

From thine and wound me to the heart. 

Yet could they not >><; clean, — their gtain 

Is dyed in such a purjJe grain ; 

There is not such anothCT in 

The world to offer for th«r sin. 

Inwnstant .Sylvio, when )'ct 
I had not found hirn wjunt'rtfeit. 
One moniing (I remeinlier well), 
Tie<l in this silver diain and V;!l, 
CJave it to me ; nay, and I know 
What he said then, — I 'm sure I do : 
Said he, " I^ook how your huntsman here 
Hath taught a fawn tf) hunt his dear ! " 
But .Sylvio soon ha<] rne Tieguiled ; 
This waxed tame, while he grew wild ; 
And, quite regardless of my smart, 
Left me his fawn, but took his h'airt. 

Tlienr^iforth I wX myself Ui jilay 
My solitary time away 
AVith this ; and, very well content. 
Could so mine idle life have sjient. 
For it was full of sport, and light 
Of fiKA and heart, and did invite 
Me to its garrie. It seeme'l fi bless 
Itsfdf in rne ; how could I less 
Than love it ? 0, I cannot >je 
Unkind to a beast that loveth me ' 

Had it lived long, I do not know 
Whether it, too, might have done so 
As Sylvio did, — his gifts might be 
Perhaj/s as false, or more, than he. 
For I am STire, for aught that I 
Could in so short a time esjiy. 
Thy love was far more bett*r than 
The love offals'- and cni'l man. 

With smeetest milk and sugar, first 
I it at mine ova fingen nursed ; 

And as it giew, so every day 

It waxed more white and sweet than they. 

It ha<l at) sweet a breath ! and oft 

I blushe/l to see its foot more soft 

And white- — sliaU I say than my hand? 

Nay, any la<ly's of the land. 

It i-i a wondrous thing how fleet 
'T was on thosf! little silver feet. 
With what a pretty, skijjping 
It oft would challenge me the race ; 
And when 't ha/1 left me far away, 
'T would stay, and run again, and stay : 
For it w.-is nimbler much than hind.-,, 
And troil as if on the four winils. 

I have a garden of my own, — 
But >vi with roses overgrown, 
Anil lilies, tliat you would it guess 
To Ix; a little wilderness ; 
And all the Bi>ringtime of the year 
It only love/l to 1* there. 
Among the Wis of lilies I 
Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; 
Yet could not, till its/df would rise, 
Find it, although lx;fore mine eyes ; 
?'or in the flaxen lilies' shaile 
It like a Wik of lilies laid. 
Vym tlie roses it would fec<I, 
Until its lij« even seeme'l to blce/l ; 
And then to rne 't would Vddly trip, 
And print th'«e roses on my lip. 
But all its chief delight was still 
On T'lHisn thus itself to fill ; 
Ami its pure virgin lirnljs to fold 
In whitest sheets of lili'si coU. 
Had it live'l long, it w'juld have b<;en 
Lili'rs without, r'jses within. 

0, help ! O, help ! I see it faint, 
And die as failrnly as a saint ! 
.See how it w«;jrs ! the Uars do come, 
HaA, slowly, dropping like a gum. 
.So weeps the wfjundcl l<al.sam ; so 
llie h'dy frankin'*n»e doth flow ; 
The brotherless Helia'lisi 
Melt in such amber tears as th':Sie. 

I in a golden phial will 
Keep tht-se two (rystal tears, an'l fill 
It, till it do o''!rflr(W with mine ; 
Tlien pla<«i it in Diana's shrine. 

Xow my sweet fawn is vanishcl V, 
Whither the swans and turtles go. 
In fair Elysium to endure. 
With rnilk-white laml>s, and ennines pure. 
0, do not run too fast ! for I 
Will but l*8jieak thy grave — and 'lie. 

First, my unhappy statue shall 
Be fmt in marble ; and witlial, 
I>et it \ii: weeping Xiin. But there 
The engraver sure Ids art may s]<are ; 







For I so truly thee bemoiui 

That I shall weep, though I be stone, 

Until my tears, still dropping, wear 

My breast, themselves engraving there. 

There at my feet shalt thou be laid. 

Of purest alabaster made ; 

For I would have thine image be 

White as I can, though not as thee. 



Never any more 

While 1 live. 
Need I hope to see his face 

As before. 
Once his love grown chill. 

Mine may strive, — 
Bitterly we re-embrace. 

Single still. 

Was it something said. 

Something done, 
Vexed him ? was it touch of hand. 

Turn of head ? 
Strange ! that very way 

Love begun. 
I as little understand 

Love's decay. 

When I sewed or drew, 

I recall 
How he looked as if I sang 

— Sweetly too. 
If 1 spoke a word. 

First of all 
Up his cheek the color sprang. 

Then he heard. 

Sitting by my side. 

At my feet. 
So he breathed the air I breathed, 

Satisfied ! 
I, too, at love's brim 

Touched the sweet : 
I would die if death bei|ueathed 

Sweet to him. 

" Speak, — I love thee best ! " 

He exclaimed. 
" Let thy love my own foretell, — 

I confessed ; 
" Clasp my heart on thine 

Now unblamed. 
Since upon thy soul as well 

Hangeth mine ! " 

Was it wrong to own. 

Being truth ? 
Wliy should all the giving prove 

His alone '! 
I had wealth and ease. 

Beauty, youth, — 
Since my lover gave me love, 

I gave tliese. 

That was all I meant, 

— To be just, 

And the passion I had raised 

To content. 
Since he chose to change 

Gold for dust. 
If I gave him what he praised, 

Was it strange ? 

Would he loved me yet, 

On and on, 
While I found some way undreamed, 

— Paid my debt ! 
Gave more life and more. 

Till, all gone. 
He should smile, " She never seemed 
Mine before. 

" What — she felt the while. 

Must 1 think ? 
Love 's so different with us men," 

He should smile. 
' ' Dying for my sake — 

White and pink ! 
Can't we touch these bubbles then 

But they break ? " 

Dear, the pang is brief. 

Do thy part. 
Have thy pleasure. How perplext 

Grows belief ! 
Well, this cold clay clod 

Was man's heart. 
Cnimble it, — and what comes next ? 

Is it God ? 

Robert Browning. 


Flowers are fresh, and bushes green, 

Cheerily the linnets sing ; 
Winils are soft, and skies serene ; 

Time, however, soon shall throw 
Winter's snow 
O'er the buxom breast of Spring ! 

Hope, that buds in lover's heart. 

Lives not through the scorn of years ; 





— ^ 


Time makes love itself ilepait ; 

Time and scorn congeal the mind, — 
Looks unkind 
Freeze affection's wannest tears. 

Time shall make the bushes green ; 

Time dissolve the winter snow ; 
Winds be soft, and skies serene ; 

Linnets sing their wonted strain : 
But again 
Blighted love shall never blow ! 

From the Portuguese of Luis DE CAMOBNS, 




The bard has sung, God never formed a .soul 
Without its own peculiar mate, to meet 

Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole 
Bright plan of bliss most heavenly, most com- 

But thousand evil things there are that hate 
To look on hapi>iness : these hurt, im[)cde, 
And leagued with time, space, circumstance and 
Keep kindred heart from heart, to ])ine, and 
pant, and bleed. 

And as the dove to far Palmyra flying 

From where her native founts of Antioch beam, 

Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, 
Lights sadly at tlie desert's bitter stream ; 

So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring. 
Love's pure congenial spring unfound, un- 
Suffeis — 1 ecoils — then thirsty and despairing 
Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest 
draught 1 


I HAVK ships that went to sea 

More than fifty years ago ; 
None have yet come home to me, 

But are sailing to and fro. 
I have seen them in my sleep. 
Plunging through the shoreless deep, 
With tattered sails and battered hulls. 
While around them screamed the gulls, 
Flying low, flying low. 

1 have wondered why they strayed 
From me, sailing round the world ; 

And 1 've said, "1 'm half afrai.l 

That their sails will ne'er be furled." 
Great the treasures that they hold. 
Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold ; 
While the spices that they bear 
Fill with fragrance all the air. 
As they sail, as they sail. 

Ah ! each sailor in the port 

Knows that I have ships at sea, 
Of the waves and winds the sport, 

And the sailors pity me. 
Oft they come and with me walk, 
Cheering me with hopeful talk, 
Till I put my fears aside. 
And, contented, watch the tide 
Rise and fall, rise and fall. 

I have waited fin the piers. 

Gazing for them down the bay. 
Days and nights for many years, 
Till 1 turned heart-sick away. 
But the pilots, when they land. 
Stop and take me by the hand. 
Saying, ' ' You will live to see 
Your proud vessels come from sea, 
One and all, one and all." 

So I never quite despair. 

Nor let hope or courage fail ; 
And some <lay, when skies are fair, 

Up the bay my ships will sail. 
I shall buy then all 1 need, — 
Prints to look at, books to read. 
Horses, wines, and works of art, 
Everything — except a heart 
That is lost, that is lost. 

Once, when 1 was pure and young, 

Kicher, too, than 1 am now, 
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung. 

Or a wrinkle creased my brow, 
There was one whose heart was mine ; 
But she 's something now divine. 
And though come my ships from sea, 
They can bring no heart to me 
Evermore, evermore. 



Bt-T Enoch yearned to see her face again ; 
" If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is hapjiy." So the thought 
Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below 







There did a thousand nieinoiii'S loU u[ioii him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street. 
The latest house to landward ; but behind. 
With one small gate that opened on the waste, 
Flourisheil a little garden square and walled : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole 
rp by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
That which he better might have shunned, if 

Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnished board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth ; 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms. 
Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed ; 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe. 
But turning now and then to speak with him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong. 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life lieheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness. 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place. 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all. 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and 

To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
Which in one moment, like the of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of tlie hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate under foot. 
And feeling all along the garden-wall. 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found. 
Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed. 

As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed. 



0, THE days are gone when beauty bright 

My heart's chain wove ! 
When my dream of life, from morn till night. 
Was love, still love ! 
New hope may bloom. 
And days may come, 
Of milder, calmer beam. 
But there 's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream ! 
0, there 's nothing half so sweet in life 
As love's young dream ! 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar. 

When wild youth 's past ; 
Though he win the wise, who frowned before, 

To smile at last ; 

He '11 never meet 

A joy so sweet 
In all his noon of fame 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt liame. 
And, at every close, she blushed to hear 

The one loved name ! 

0, that hallowed foi-m is ne'er forgot. 

Which first love traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
On memory's waste ! 
'T was odor fled 
As soon as shed ; 
'T was morning's wingkl dream ; 
'T was a light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream ! 
0, 't was light that ne'er can shine again 
On life's dull stream ! 

Thomas Moore. 


WiiEX the lamp is shattered. 
The light in the dust lies dead ; 
When the cloud is scattered. 
The rainbow's glory is shed. 
When the lute Is broken, 
Sweet tones are remembered not ; 
A\1ien the lips have spoken. 
Loved accents are soon forgot. 






As music and s[)lendor 

Survive not the lamp and the lute, 

The heart's echoes render 

No song when the spirit is mute, — 

No song but sad dirges, 

Like the wind through a ruined cell, 

Or the mournful surges 

That ring the dead seaman's knell. 

When hearts have once mingled. 

Love first leaves the well-built nest ; 

The weak one is singled 

To endure what it once possest. 

Love ! who bewailest 

The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 

For your cradle, your home, and your liier ? 

Its passions will rock thee 

As the storms rock the ravens on high ; 

Bright reason will mock thee. 

Like the sun from a wintry sky. 

From thy nest every rafter 

Will rot, and thine eagle home 

Leave thee naked to laughter. 

When leaves fall and cold winds come. 

Percy B^sshe Shelley. 



Take, 0, take those lips away, 
That so sweetly were forsworn ; 

And those eyes, the break of day. 
Lights that do mislead the morn ; 

But my kisses bring again. 

Seals of love, but sealed in vain. 

Hide, 0, hide those hills of snow 
Which thy frozen bosom bears. 

On whose tops the pinks that grow 
Are of those that April wears ! 

But first set my poor heart free. 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 



I LOVED a lass, a fair one, 

As fair as e'er was seen ; 
She was indeed a rare one, 

Another Sheba Queen ; 
But fool as then I was, 

1 thought she loved me too. 
But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

Her hair like gold did glister. 

Each eye was like a star, 
She did surpass her sister 

Which past all others far ; 
She would me honey call. 

She 'd, 0, she 'd kiss me too, 
But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

In summer time to Sledley, 

lly love and I would go, — 
The boatmen there stood ready 

lly leva and I to row ; 
For cream there would we call. 

For cakes, and for prunes too. 
But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

Many a merry meeting 

My love and I have had ; 
She was my only sweeting. 

She made my heart full glad : 
The tears stood in her eyes. 

Like to the morning <lew, 
But now, alas ! sh' 'as left nie, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

And as abroad we walked. 

As lovers' fashion is. 
Oft as we sweetly talkeil. 

The sun wouUl steal a kiss ; 
The wind upon her lips 

Likewise most sweetly blew. 
But now, alas ! sh' 'as left mc, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

Her cheeks were like the cherry. 

Her skin as white as snow. 
When she was blithe and merry. 

She angel-like di<l show ; 
Her waist exceeding small, 

The fives did fit her shoe. 
But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

In summer time or winter. 

She had her heart's desire ; 
I still did scom to stint her. 

From sugar, sack, or fire ; 
The world went round about, 

No cares we ever knew. 
But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

As we walked home together 

At midnight through the town, 

To keep away the weather, 

O'er her 1 'd cast my gown ; 







No colli my lovo should foul, 

Whate'er tho hcavons ooulil ilo, 

But now, alas ! sh' 'as loft inc, 
Faloro, lero, loo. 

Like (loves wo would bo billing, 

Anil clip and kiss so fast. 
Yet slio would bo unwilling 

That I should kiss the lust ; 
They 'ro Judas kisses now, 

Since that they proved untrue ; 
For now, alas ! sh' 'as left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

To maiden's vows and swearing, 

Henceforth no credit give. 
You may give them the hearing, — 

Hut never them believe ; 
Tliey are as false as fair, 

Unconstant, frail, untrue ; 
For mine, alas I hath left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

'T was I that paid for all things, 

'T was other dnink the wine ; 
I cannot now i-ecall things, 

Live but a fool to pine : 
'Twas I that beat the Imsh, 

The biiils to othei's Hew, 
For she, alas ! hath loft me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

I f ever that Dame Nature, 

For this false lover's sake. 
Another pleasing creature 

Like unto her would make ; 
Let her remember this. 

To make the other true. 
For this, alas I hath left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 

No riches now can raise me. 

No want make me despair. 
No misery amaze me. 

Nor yet for want I caix) ; 
I have lost a world itself. 

My earthly heaven, adieu ! 
Since she, alas ! hath left me, 

Falero, lero, loo. 


Why so pala and wan, fond lover ? 

Prythee, why so jwle ? — 
Will, when looking well can't move her. 

Looking ill provail ? 

Prythee, why so pale ? 

Wliy so dull and mute, young sinner ! 

Prythee, why so mute ■ 
Will, when speaking well can't win her. 

Saying nothing do 't > 

Prythee, why so mute .' 

Quit, ipiit, for .shame ! this will not move. 

This cannot take her ; 
If of hei-self she will not love. 

Nothing can make her : 

The devil take her ! 



I wii.i, go tiack to the great sweet mother. 

Mother and lover of men, the sea. 
I will go down to her, I and none other. 

Close with her, kiss her, and mix her'w ith mo ; 
Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. 
fair white mother, in days long past 
Born without sister, born without brother, 

Set free my soul as thy soul is free. 

fair green-girdled mother of mine, 

Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, 
Thy sweet hanl kisses are strong like wine, 

Thy large embraces are keen like pain ! 
Save me and hide me with all thy waves. 
Find mo one grave of thy thousand graves. 
Those pure cold popnlous graves of thine, 

Wroughtwithout haiul in a world without stnin. 

1 shall sleep, and move with the moving ships. 
Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; 

My lips will feast on the foam of thy lijKs, 

I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside ; 
Sleep, and not know if she be, if slie were, 
Filled full with life to the eyes and hair. 
As a rose is fultilled to the rose-leaf tips 

With splendid summer and perfume and pride. 

This woven raiment of nights and days. 

Were it once cast off and unwound from me, 
Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways. 
Alive and aware of thy waves and thee ; 
Clear of the whole world, hidden at home. 
Clothed with thegreen, and crowned with the foanr, 
A pnlse of the life of thy straits and bays, 
A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea, 



Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she "s not fickle ; 

her love she has simply outgrown : 
One can read the whole matter, translating her 

heart by the light of one's own. 






Can you bear me to talk with you fiankly ? There 
is much that my heart wouKl say ; 

And you know we were children together, liave 
quarreled and " made up " in play. 

And so, for the sake of old frii-ndslnji, I venture 

to tell you the truth, — 
As plainly, perhajis, and as bluntly, as 1 might 

in our earlier youth. 

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you 

stood on the selfsame plane. 
Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your 

souls could be parted again. 

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom 

of lier life's early May ; 
And it is not her fault, 1 repeat it, that she does 

not love you to-day. 

Nature never stands still, nor souls either : they 

ever go up or go down ; 
.\nd hers has been steadily soaring, — but Iiow 

has it been with your own ? 

She has struggled and yearned and aspired, — 
grown purer and wiser each year ; 

The stars are not farther above you in yon lumi- 
nous atmosphere ! 

For she whom you (Towned with fresh roses, 
down yonder, tive summers ago. 

Has learned that the first of our duties to God 
and ourselves is to grow. 

Her eyes they are .sweeter and calmer ; but their 

vision is clearer as well : 
Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is jjure as 

a silver IjcII. 

Her face has the look worn by those who with 
God and his angels have talked : 

The white robes she wears are less white than 
the spirits with whom .she has walked. 

And you ' Have you aimed at the highest ? Have 

you, too, as]iired and prayed ? 
Have you looki'd upon evil unsullied ? Have you 

eon<|uercd it iindismayed ? 

Have you, too, giown purer and wiser, as the 
months and the years have rolled on ? 

Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the 
triumiih of victory won ? 

Nay, hear me I The truth cannot harm you. 

When to-day in her presence you stood. 
Was the hand that you gave her as white ami 

clean as that of her womanhood ? 


Go measure youi'self by her standard. Look back 

on the years that have fled ; 
Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that tlie 

love of her girlhood is dead ! 

Slie cannot look down to her lover : her love like 

her soul, aspires ; 
lie nuist stand by her .side, or above her, who 

would kindle its holy fires. 

Now farewell ! For the sake of old friendship I 
have ventured to tell you the truth, 

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as 1 miglit 
in our earlier youth. 


FRO.M "THE LIGHT OF lllli tIAkllM." 

Alas ! how light a cause may move 

Dissension between hearts that love ! — 

Hearts that the world in vain has tried. 

And sorrow but more closely tied ; 

That stood the storm when waves wore rough. 

Yet in a sunny hour fall off. 

Like sliips that have gone down at sea, 

When heaven was all tran<iuillity ! 

A something light as air, — a look, 

A word unkind or wrongly taken, — 
0, love that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this has .shaken ! 
And ruder words will soon rush in 
To spread the breach that words begin ; 
And eyes foi-get the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship's smiling day; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
A tenderness round all they .said ; 
Till fast declining, one by one, 
The sweetnesses of love are gone. 
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken rdouds, — or like the stream. 
That snuling left the mountain's brow. 

As though its waters ne'er could .sever, 
Yet, ei-e it reach the plain below, 

Ureaks into floods that part forever. 

O you, that have the charge of Love, 

Keep him in rosy bondage bound, 
As in the Fields of Bliss above 

lie sits, with flowerets fettered round ; — 
Loose not a tie that round him clings. 
Nor ever let him use his wings ; 
For even an hour, a minute's flight 
Will rob the plumes of half their light. 
I^iki' that celestial bird, — whose nest 

Is found beneath far Eastern skies, — 
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, 

Lose all their glory when he flies ! 








At Paris it was, at tlie opera tlioro ; 

And slip looked like n queeu iu a book that 
With tho wreath of pearl in her raven hair, 

And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all tho operas that Verdi wrote. 

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; 

And JIario can soothe, with a tenor note, 
Tho souls iu purgatory. 

Tho moon on tlio tower slept soft as snow ; 

And who was not thrilled in tho sti-.ingest way, 
As we hcanl him sing, whilo tho gius burned low, 

" Non H scordar di me " ? 

The emperor there, iu his box of state. 

Looked grave ; as if he had just then seen 

The red llag wave from tho city gate. 
Whore Ids onglos in bronie had been. 

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye : 

You 'd have said that her fancy had gone hick 

For one nunneut, under the old blue sky. 
To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well ! there in our front-row box we sat 
Together, my bride betrothed and I ; 

My giize was fixed on my opera hat. 
And hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and botJi were .sad ; — 
Like a queen she leaned on her full white anu, 

With that regnl, indolent air .she had ; 
So confident of her charm ! 

1 have not a doubt she was thinking then 
Of her former lord, good sou! that ho was, 

Who died the richest and roundest of men. 
The Marquis of Carabas. 

I hope that, to get to the kingilom of heaven. 
Through a nceiUc's eye he had not to pass ; 

1 wish him well for the jointure given 
To mv ladv of t.'nrabas. 

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) ; 

And her warm white neck in its golden chain ; 
And her full solt hair, just tied in a knot. 

And falling loose again ; 

And the jasmine tlowor in hor fair young breast ; 

(0 the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower I) 
And the one bird singing alone to his nest ; 

And tho one star over the tower. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife. 
And the letter that brought nio back my ring ; 

And it all seemed then, iu tho waste of life. 
Such a very little thing ! 

For I thought of her grave below the hill. 
Which the .sentinel cypress-tree stands over : 

And 1 thought, " Were she only living still. 
How 1 could forgive her and love her I" 

And I swear, as 1 thonghtof her thus, in tliat hour. 
And of how, after all, old tilings are best, 

That 1 smelt the smell of that jasmine flower 
Which slie used to wear in her breast. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, 
It made me creep, and it made mo cold ! 

Likcthe scent tliat stCiUs from the crumbling sheet 
Where a nuiinmy is half unrolled. 

And 1 turned and looked : she was sitting there. 
In a dim box over the stage ; and drest 

In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair. 
And that jasmine iu her breast ! 

I was here, and she was there ; 

And tho glittering horseshoe curved bet ween ! — 
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair 

And her sumptuous scornful mien. 

To my early love with her eyes downcast. 
And over hor primrose face tlie shade, 

(In short, from the future back to the past,) 
There was but a step to be made. 

To my early love from my future bride 
j One moment 1 looked. Then 1 stole to the door, 
I travei-sed the passage : and down at her side 
I was sitting, a moment more. 

Meanwhile, 1 was thinking of my fii'st love My thinking of her, or the music's strain. 

As I had not been thinking of aught for yeai-s ; Or something which never will be exjirest. 

Till over my eyes tliere began to move Had brought her liack from the grave again. 

Something that felt like tears. With tlie jasmine in hor breast. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last time. 
When westood 'neath the cypress-trees together. 

In that lost land, in that soft cliiue. 
In the crimson evening weather ; 

She is not dead, and she is not wed ! 

But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! 
And the very first word that her sweet lips said, 

JIv heart grew vonthful again. 

— ^ ff 






The marchioness there, of Carabas, 

Slie is wealthy, and young, and handsome still ; 
And but for her — well, we '11 let that pass ; 

.She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love, 

With her primrose face, for old things are best ; 
And the llower in her bosom, I prize it above 

The brooch in my lady's breast. 

The world is filled with folly and sin. 
And love must cling whore it can, 1 say : 

For beauty is easy enough to win ; 
But one is n't loved every day. 

And 1 think, in the lives of most women andmen. 
There 's a moment when all would go smooth 
and even, 

If only the deail could find out when 
To come back and bo forgiven. 

But 0, the smell of that jasmine flower ! 

And 0, that nnisic ! and 0, the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon tower, 
A'o'i ti scordar di me, 
Non ti scordar di me I 

Robert Bulwek lvtton. 


Yeaks, years ago, ere yet my dreams 

Had been of being wise or witty, 
Ere I had done with writing themes. 

Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, — 
Years, years ago, while all my joys 

Were in my fowling-piece and filly, — 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 

I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 

I saw her at the county ball : 

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall 

Of hands across and down the middle. 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

f If all that sets young hearts romancing : 
She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 

Andthenshedanced, — OHeaven ! herdancing! 

Dark was her hair ; her hand was white, 

Her voice was exfjuisitely tender ; 
Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 

I never saw a waist so slender ; 
Her every look, her every smile. 

Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
I thought 't was Venus from her isle, 

And wondered where she 'd left her sparrows. 

She talked of politics or prayers, 

Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, 
Of danglers or of dancing bears, 

Of battles or the last new bonnets ; 
By candlelight, at twelve o'clock — 

To me it mattered not a tittle — 
if those bright lips had quoted Locke, 

I might have thought they murmured Little. 

Through sunny May, through sultry June, 

I loved her with a love eternal ; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

I wrote them to the Sunday .loumal. 
My mother laughed ; I soon found out 

That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
My father frowned ; but how should gout 

See any happiness in kneeling ? 

She was the daughter of a dean, — 

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
She had one brother just thirteen. 

Whose color was extremely hectic ; 
Her grandmother, for many a year. 

Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
Her second-cousin was a peer. 

And lord -lieutenant of the county. 

But titles and the three-per-cents. 

And mortgages, and great relations, 
And India bonds, and tithes and rents, 

0, what are they to love's sensations ? 
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, — 

Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses ; 
He cares as little for the stocks 

As Baron Kothschild for the muses. 

She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach, 

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : 
She Vmtanized ; I envied each 

Young blossom in her lx)udoir fading : 
She warbled Handel ; it was grand, — 

She made tlie Catalina jealous : 
She touched the organ ; I couhl stand 

For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 

She kept an album too, at home. 

Well filled witli all an album's glories, — 
Paintings of butteiflies and Kome, 

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories. 
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, 

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, 
And autographs of Prince Lceboo, 

And recipes for elder-water. 

And she was flattered, worshiped, bored ; 

Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; 
Her poodle-dog was quite adored ; 

Her sayings were extremely quoted. 






Slu> liuifihod, — tmd ovory hfiirt wus glad, 

As ir llu' taxes woro iibolislioil ; 
She IVmviU'd, iiiid I'ViTy look wus sad, 

As it till' opiTii Hi'iv doiuoUsluHi. 

Slu' siuilwl on mimy just I'oi' I'un, — 

I know that tlipiv was iiotliiiij; in it ; 
1 was llio til'st, tlu> only ono 

lli'i' lu'art had thonjjht of fov a miniito. 
1 know it, lor sho told mo so, 

In iihraso wluili was diviiu'ly nioldi'd ; 
Shii wroti' a elianninj» hand, and O, 

I low swoi'lly all her notes wore I'oUU'd ! 

Our love was like most oilier loves, — 

A lillle -low, a little sliivel-, 
A ros,'l,na and a pair of .gloves, 

And " lly Not Vet." upon llie river; 
.■^onu' jealousy of sonn' one's heir, 

.Sonu' hopes of dyinj; luvken-hearted ; 
A uiiniatniv, a look of hair. 

The usual vows, — and then we parli'd. 

We parted ; months and years rolled hy ; 

We nu't ajp\in four suumu>i's after. 
Onr imrtinj; was all soli and si{;h, 

(l\ir uu'etiiij; was all mirth and laughter ! 
l''ov in my heart's most seerot eoU 

Theiv luul 1)0011 many olhor lodgers ; 
And sho was not the Imll-niom's bello, 

Uut only Mi's. — Somothinj;— 1{oj^m's ! 


\\'iioM lirst Hi' love, you know, wo seldom wed. 
'I'imo rules us all. .\ud life, indeed, is not 
'["he thinj; we planned it out oiv hope was dead. 
.\nd then, we women eannot elioose our lot. 

Mneh must bo borne whieh it is liaixl to liear ; 
Mueh j;iven away whieh it were sweet to keep. 
Ood help us all ! who need, indeed, his eau' : 
.\nd yet, 1 know the Shepheni loves his slieop. 

My little boy begins to hibblo now 
Tpon my knee his infant prayer, 
lie has his father's eager eyes. I know ; 
.\nd. they say, too, his mother's sunny hair. 

lint when he .sleeps and smiles upon my knee. 
And 1 ean feel his light bivath eome and go, 
I think of one (Heaven help and pity me !) 
Wlio loved me, and whom I loved, long ago ; 

Who might have been — ah, what 1 dai\<not think ! 
We aiv all ehanginl. (>od judges for us best. 
Cod help us do our duty, and not shrink, 
.■\nd trust in Heaven humblv for the i-est. 

Hut hlaine ns women not, if some aiipear 
Too cold at limes ; and some too gay and light. 
Somegriel'sgnawdoop. Some woesareharil to bear. 
W'ho knows the past ( and who eanjudge us right ! 

Ah, were wo judged by what we might have been. 
And not by what we are — too apt to fall I 
My little ehild ■ he sleeps and smiles between 
These thoughts aniline, hi heaven we shall know 


CoMK not, when I am dead. 

To drop thy foolish tears upon luy grave, 
To trample limnd my fallen lead. 

.\nd vex the unhappy dust llum wouKlst not 

There lei llie wind sweep and the plover ery ; 
liul thou, go liy 1 

(."hild, if it wem thine error or thy erime 
I eare no longer, being all nnblest ; 

Wed whom tlion will, but I am siek of Time, 
And 1 desiiv to rest. 

Pass on, weak heart, and leave lue where I lie : 
t1o bv, go bv ! 


As, rising on its purple wing, 
The iiiseet-queon of Kasteru spring. 
O'er emerald meadows of Kushmeer, 
Invites the young pursuer near. 
And leads him on fixim Mower to lUnver, 
A weary eliaso and wasted hour. 
Then leaves him, as it soul's on high. 
With iwiiting heart and tearful eye ; 
So Ueauty luivs the fuU-gitiwii child. 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
A chase of idle hopes and Teal's, 
Hegnii in folly, closed in teal's. 
If won, to eipial ills betrayed, 
AVoe waits the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
Fiinn infant's play and man's I'aprice ; 
The lovely toy, so tieiwly sought. 
Hath last its charm by being caught ; 
For every touch that wooed its stay 
Hath brushed its brighest hues away, 
Till, ehariu and hue and beauty gone, 
"r is left to lly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing ov bleeding bivast. 
Ah ! wlieiY shall either victim ix>st • 






Can tills with fiidwl iiiiiioii mM 
rrom rose to tiilii) an belore ( 
(Jr Huauty, l)lif{liti:(l in an hour, 
Find joy witliin her broken Ijowcr ? 
No ; gayer inscctH ilutteriiig l>y 
Ne'er droop the wing o'ei- llioMe tliat die, 
Ami lovelier things have nierey shown 
To every failing Ijut their own, 
And every woe a tear can elaiin, 
Except an erring «i»ter's Bhanie. 



I l-oVKii thee once, I '11 love no more, 
Thine he the grief hb in tlie hlaine ; 
Thou art not what tlioii WiUit before, 
What reaHon I should be the sjinie ( 
Me that can love unloved again. 
Hath better store of love than l)rain ; 
Ooil Ben<l nie love my debts to ])ay. 
While unthrifts fool their love away. 

Nothing could have my love o'crthrown. 

If thou hadst still continued mine ; 
Yea, if tliou ha<lst remained thy own, 
I might perchance have yet been thine. 
l!ul thou thy freedom did recall. 
That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; 
And then how could I but disilain 
A captive's captive to remain f 

When new desires had coii<|uered thee. 
And changed the object of thy will. 
It had been lethargy in me, 

Not constancy, to love thee still. 

Yea, it had Vjeen a sin to go 

And jirostitute affection so. 

Since we are taught no prayers to say 

To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in tliy dioice. 

Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 
I '11 neither grieve nor yet rejoice. 
To see him gain what I have lost ; 
The height of my di«<Iain shall be. 
To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
To love thee still, but go no more 
A lagging to a beggar's door. 



Wuri'.K shall the lover rest 
Whom the fates sever 

From his true maiden's breast, 
Parted forever ? 

Where, through groves deep and high 

.Sound.s the far billow. 
Where early violets die 

Under the willow. 
Kleu loro 

Soft shall be hi.', pillow. 

There, thiough the summer day, 

<.'ool streams are laving : 
There, while the tcm]iests sway. 

Scarce are boughs waving ; 
There thy ir;st shalt thou take, 

Parted forever. 
Never again to wake 

Never, never ! 
Kleu loro 

Never, never ! 

Where shall the traitor rest, 

He, the deceiver. 
Who could win maiden's breast, 

Iiuin, and leavi; her '. 
In the lost Imttle, 

Dome down by the Hying, 
Where, mingles war's rattle 

With groans of the dying ; 
Kleu loro 

There shall he be lying. 

Her wing shall the eagle (lap 

O'er the false-hearted ; 
His wann blood the wolf shall lajj 

Krc life V; parted : 
Shame and dishonor sit 

liy his grave ever ; 
Blessing shall h.-dlow it 

Never, O never ! 
Kleu loro 

Never, never I 

SIK waltek sc/r 


A S'.O'ITIsn SfjtiO. 

Bai.ow, my babe, ly stil and sleifKi ! 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ; 
If thou 'st be silent, I 'sc be glad. 
Thy maining maks my h(«irt ful sad. 
lialow, my Ixjy, thy mither'sjoy I 
Thy father breides me great annoy. 

lliilov;, my hafte, ly slil and alcipc I 
It fjricvr,H me mir lo sec Uicc v'cipe. 

When he began to court my luvc. 
And with his sugred words to muve. 
His faynings fals, and flatt/^riiig cheire. 
To me tliat time did not appeire : 







But now I soe, most cruell hee, 
Cares neither for ray babo nor moo. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I 
It grieves me aair to see thee weipc. 

Ly stil, my darlingo, sleipe awhile, 
And when thou wakost sweitly smile : 
But smile not, as thy father did, 
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! 
But yette I fciro, thou wilt gao iieire, 
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I 
It grieves me sair to see tlie weipe. 

I cannao chuse, but ever will 
Be hiving to thy father stil : 
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, 
My luvo with him maun stil abyde : 
In Weil or wae, whair-eir he gae. 
Mine hart can neir depart him frao. 

JSalow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I 
It grieves me sair to sec thee wtipc. 

But doo not, doe not, prettie mine, 
To faynings fals thine hart incline ; 
Bo loyal to thy luver trew, 
And novir change liir for a new ; 
I f gude or faire, of hir have care, 
For women's banning 's wonderous sair. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee toeipe. 

Bairno, sin thy cruel father 's gane, 

Thy winsome smiles maun eiso my paino ; 

lly babe and 1 '11 together live, 

Ho '11 comfort me when cares doe grieve ; 

My babo and I right saft will ly. 

And ijiiite forget man's cruelty. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleii>e I 
It grieves vie sair to sec Hue weipe. 

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth 
That over Icist a woman's mouth ! 
I wish all maids be warned by niee, 
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; 
For if wo doe but ch.ance to bow, 
Thoy '11 use us than they care not how. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe I 
li grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 



My held is like to rend, Willie, 
My heart is like to break ; 

I 'm wearin' alf my feet, Willie, 
I 'm dyin' for your sake 1 

O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 
Your hand on my brieet-bane, — 

0, say ye 'U think on me, Willie, 
When I am deid and gane ! 

It 's vain to comfort me, Willie, 

Sair grief maun ha'e its will ; 
But let me rest upon your briest 

To sab and greet my fill. nie sit on your knee, Willie, 

Let me shed by your hair. 
And look into the face, Willie, 

I never sail see mair ! 

1 'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 

For the last time in my life, — 
.\ puir heart-broken thing, Willie, 

.\ mither, yet nae wife. 
Ay, press your hand upon my heart. 

And press it mair and mair. 
Or it will the silken t%vine. 

Sac Strang is its despair. 

0, wae 's me for the hour, Willie, 

When we thegithcr met, — 
0, wae 's me for the time, Willie, 

That our first tryst was set ! 
0, wae 's mo for the loanin' green 

Whore we were wont to gao, — 
And wae 's me for the destinie 

That gart mo luvo thee sae ! 

0, diuna niinil my words, Willin, 

I downa seek to blamo ; 
But 0, it 's hard to live, Willie, 

And dree a warld's .shame I 
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek. 

And liailin' ower your chin : 
Why wcop ye sae for worthlcssnoss, 

For sorrow, ami for sin ? 

I 'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 

And sick wi' a' 1 see, 
1 canna live as 1 ha'o lived. 

Or he as. I should be. 
But fauld unto your heart, Willie, 

The heart that still is thine. 
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek 

Ye said was rod langsyne. 

A stoun' gaes through my h6i<l, Willie, 

A sair stoun' through my heart ; 
0, hand me up and let me kiss 

Tliy brow ore we twa pairt. 
Anitlier, and anither yet ! — 

How fast my life-strings break ! — 
Fareweel ! fareweel ! through you kirk-yard 

Step lichtly for my sake ! 




The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, 

That lilts far ower our heid, 
Will sing the morn as mcmlie 

Abuno the clay-oauUl deid ; 
And this green turf we 're sittin' on, 

Wi' dew-draps shimmcrin' sheen, 
Will hap the heart tliat luvit thee 

As warld has seldom seen. 

But 0, remember me, Willie, 

On land where'er ye be ; 
And 0, think on the leal, leal heart. 

That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mool; 

That file my yellow hair. 
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin 

Ye never sail kiss mair ! 

William Moth 


WiEii blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all, 

The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the garden-wall. 
The broken sheds looked sad and strange, 
Unlifted was the clinking latch, 
Weeded and worn the antdent thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, "I am aweary, aweary ; 
I would tliat I were dead ! " 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at mom or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats. 

When thickest dark did trance the sky. 
She drew her casement-curtain by. 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, "The night is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

Upon the middle of the night, 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow ; 
Thi^ cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change. 

In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn. 

Till cold winds woke the fip-ay-eyod mom 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "The day is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, "I am aweary, aweary. 

And I would that I were dead ! " 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blackened waters slept. 
And o'er it many, round and small. 

The clustered marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway. 
All silver green with gnarled bark, 
For leagues no other tree did dark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

And ever when the moon was low. 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
lu the white curtain, to and fro. 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound within their cell. 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, "The night is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, "1 am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

All day within the dreamy house, 

The doors upon their hinges creaked. 
The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse 

Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked, 
Or from the crevice peered aliout. 

Old faces glimmered through the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, " My life is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, awcan', 

I would that I were dead 1 " 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick-moted lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, .said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," .she said ; 

She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 

God, that I were daad ! " 








A SKNTiNEL uugel, Sitting high in glory, 
Heiuil this sluill wjiil ling out I'unu l^^^■g!lto^y ;, 
'■ llttvo meivy, mighty angel, hoar my story ! 

" 1 lovixl, ■ — and, blind with jwssioiiato love, I 

Love bixiught me down to death, and death to 

Hell ; 
For God is just, and death for sin is well. 

" 1 do not rage against his high decree, 
>i or for myself do ask that grace shall be ; 
But for my love ou eartli who mourus for me. 

" Great Spirit ! Let me see my love again 
And comfort him one hour, and I were lain 
To pay a thousand yeai-s of tiiv and paiu." 

Then sjiid the pitying angil, " Nay, repent 
That wild vow I Look, the dial-tiuger "s bent 
Down to the last hour of thy punishment ! " 

But still she wailed, " 1 pray thee, let me go ! 
1 cannot rise to jwace and leave him so. 
0, let me soothe him in his bitter woo ! " 

The bi-azen gates ground sullenly ajar. 
And upwanl, joyous, like a rising star. 
She rose and vanished in the ether far. 

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing. 
And like a wounded bii\l her pinions trailing, 
She llutteivd Ixiek, witJi bi-oken-hearted wailing. 

She sobbed, ' ' I foimd him by the summer sea 
Keelined, his head upon a maiden's knee, — 
She curleil lus hair and kissed hun. AVoe is inc ! " 

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin ! 
1 have K'en fond and foolisli. Let me in 
To e.\piate my sorrow and my sin." 

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher 1 
To be deceived in your true heart's desire 
Was bitterer than a thousand yeai-s of lire ! " 

John hav. 


"Nor yet, the llowei-s are in my jiath. 

The sun is in the sky ; 
Not yet, my heart is fidl of hope, 

1 cannot bear to die. 

" Not yet, I never knew till now 
How pre>cious life could be ; 

My heart is full of love, Death ! 
I cannot come with thee ! " 

But Love and Hope, enchanted twain, 
Passed in their falsehood by ; 

Death came ngsiin, and then he sjiid, 
"I 'm re'ady now to die ! " 










Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine desjmr 
liise in the heait, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the hapjiy autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the fii-st beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends u)) from the under world ; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge, — 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The ca.sement slowly grows a glimmering sfiuare ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; dceji a-s love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, — 
Death in Life, the days that are no more. 



Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gi-ay .stones, sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

well for the fisherman's boy 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
well for the sailor lad 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on. 
To the haven under the hill ; 

But for the touch of a rani-shed hand. 
And the .sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

AVill never come back to me. 


Moan, moan, ye dying gales ! 
The saddest of your tales 

Is not .so sad as life ; 
Nor have you e'er tjegan 
A theme so wild as man, 

Or with such sorrow rife. 

Fall, fall, thou withered leaf ! 
Autumn sears not like grief, 

Xor kills such lovely flowers ; 
More tcnible the storai, 
More mouniful the deform. 

When dark misfortune lowers. 

Hush ! hush ! thou trembling lyre, 
Silence, ye vocal choir. 

And thou, mellifluous lute, 
For man .soon breathes his last, 
And all his hope is, 

And all his music mute. 

Then, when the gale is sighing, 
And when the leaves are dying. 

And when the song Ls o'er, 
0, let us think of those 
Whose lives are lost in woes, 

W^hose cup of grief mns o'er. 

IIE.NRV neele. 


Hexce, all ye vain delights. 

As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly ! 

There 's naught in this life sweet, 

I f man were wise to .see 't 
But only melancholy, 
0, sweetest melancholy I 




roHMS ()>' SOliliOfV AND DEATH. 


WVIwmo, I'i.ia.Ml nnim, ,ui.l IK,V1 ov.«. 
A ai^ll Mint pioiviun mortilU^, 
A look Hint '» liiMtoiioil U. tlio ^•i'..\iml, 
A timgiiti olmiimil »|> willioul ii soiiml ! 

Kouiituiii-liiimU mill luilliloiu grovtM, 

IM«oiM wliioli |uiU' |iHSftiim liivoa I 

MiK.iiliKlit vvalk.H, wlioii nil tlio Ibwla 

All- wuiiiily IiohmihI kiivo li«b uiiil I'wl.i ! 

A mi.liu^lil lioll. II piiiiiiiKK'i"«" 1 

'I'litiMK 1110 till! MKIIiiils WO I'lunl iiimii ; 

Tlioii stinti'ti oiir lioiiiw in ii still gluoiiiy viilloy ; 

Nolliiiij; '» no ilninly »\viuit ii-i lovoly mi'iiiiu'lioij'. 

Ul.UW. lIlllW, I'llOll WINTICU WlNll 

llMiw. Mow. Hum ttiiiloi' wliul, 
Tlum »il not ao imkiiul 

Aa mini's iiijji'ntitiiilo ; 
Tliy tootli in iiol ao koon, 
Huomiao llioii Hit not soon, 

Altlioviffli tliy ImvhHi Iw nulo. 
llnijili-lio I aiiij; lioigli lio ! nulo tlio git<ou holly 
Moal lViiiiiilalii)ii,Hl'iiif;iiiii^. moat loving nunwl'olly 
Tlion. lioigli ho, thu holly ! 
'I'hia lil'o ia moat jolly ! 

Kttwjo, Ih'oBp, Ihon hiltiM' aky, 
'I'hon iloat not hito ao nigh 

Aa himolita loigol : 
Though thou tho wiitoi-a wi\ri>. 
Thy ating ia not ao ahiup 

A» tVioml itinu'ml'i'ivil not. 
lUighho ! aing lu'igh-ho ! nnto tliogivon holly 
Mont lVionilahi|>i» I'liigniiig, moat lovingmoiv folly : 
Thun, lipigh-ho. tht> holly ! 
Thia lifp ia moat joUy ! 



INVf^ten III III* «)M[hl|E |4 itliv, whvn tiilt»iUv£ hvMU |itlysU-«l iWi-io* 
*Ki». Ih» |vi*<viikiM i»f hU ilMlh. wliiwh h*l'l>eueil *vM-n Artui ] 

Mv htwrt ivohos, nuil h ilwway numlmoas jv^ina 

My aenao, «a though of humlook I ln\»l iln\uk, 
Ov en>i>t it'll aomo ilnll o(>irttti to {Xw iliixina 

One minnto )><iat, tinil l.<^th^l\^al■^\ h*il aunk. 
'T i» not thr\>ngh onvy of thy happy hit, 

lint boing too hftppy in thy happiinwia, 
Thnt (hou, light-\vi\>g^(l Ovvail of tho titnw, 
Tn aomo molwliovia plot 

Of VxHvhon giVK-n, mul ah«ilowa nunilwildaa, 
Singtwt of Swinwuir in f\\llthriMit>Hl «>««i, 

O for ft ilrnnglit of vinliig.' 

Coolwl » Umg Hgo in llio iloup .U'lvi-.l .«rtli, 
Tiiating of Flora iiiul llm country gn'i'ii, 

liaiu'iMiiiill'iovi-nvaUong.omUiiiil'iu ill Mill 111' 

for a himknr lull of llm wiiriii South, 

Knll of Iho Iruo, Hio Muahllil llipponimi'. 
With hoailoil liiihliloa winking at Iho hiiiii, 
Ami purplo-ataiuiNil monlh, 

That 1 niiglililrink.anilloavothoworl.l luiiii'ii. 
Ami with thi'K faihi away into tlio foiral .luiv . 

Kaihi far iiwiiy, iliaaolvo, ami iiiiite forgil 

What lliou among llio loavoa haat uovit known, 
Tho wnariuoaa, tlm IVvnr, anil tlio fi'ot, 

lloiv, wluMo nii'U sit ami hoar naoh othnr groan ; 
Whoio palay alinkua a low ami, gray hail's ; 

Wlu'io youth growa palo, anil apivlor lliiu, ami 
M«» ; 
\Mio«> hut to think ia to ho full of aorrow 
Ami loailon-oyoil iloapaira ; 

Whoro liiianty oanuol kooii hor UiHlrouH oyoa, 
l>r now l.ovo pino at llioiii hoxouil to moiiow. 

Away ! away ! loi 1 will ll> to llioo. 

Not I'hari'otoil hy Uaoi'lina ami hia panU. 
lint on tho viowloaa wiuga of I'ooay, 

Though tho ilnll brain porploxoa ami lolanla : 
Alivaily with thoo ! tomlor ia tho night, 

Ami haply tho nuoon-inoon ia on hor Ihioiio, 
iTuatolt'il anmml hy all Inr atariy taya ; 
Hut hoio Ihoiv la no light, 

Snvpwhul from lioavon iawilhtho hrooroa hlown 
ThlHiugh voiiluious glooms aiul wiiuling nuvaay 

1 oannot ao«i what lloweiii aiv at my foot, 

Norwiiat aolt inoonao hanga upon Iho Knigha ; 
Itut, in oinlwlmM ilarkuoas guoaa oai'h swoot 

Whoivwith tho soaaonahlo month onilowa 
'l"ho giaaa, tho thiokot, ami tho fruit-tioo wilil, 

Wliito hawthorn aiul tho jvastonil oglnntiuo ; 
Kaat- failing violots, i-ovoiwl up in hvivoa ; 
Anil miil-May'a ohloal child, 

Tho I'oiniug muak-ivao, t\ill of ilowy wiiui, 
Tho munnuroua haunt of lUoa on auuimor ovoa. 

Darkling 1 liaton ; ami for many a tinu> 

1 havo IwMi liiUf in lovo with oaaoful Poath, 
("alloil him aoft namos in many a muaM iliymo. 

To tako into tho air my uniot hivath ; 
Now, moiv than ovor, aeoma it vioh to ilio, 

To ooaao uiwn tho miilnight, with no (viin. 
Whilo thou art \XMiring forth thy aoul ahixwil 
In suoli an ooataay ' 

Still wouhlat thou aing, ami 1 havo o«ra in vain. 
To thy high i'»n«iem Kvome » soil. 

Thou wast not Iwn for doath, in>mort»l Wnl ! 
No liun|;vy g»ner*fions tixwd tho* down ; 


Hninioiy A. 



TIio voico I bear lliin jMuming iii^lil waa hoard 
III aiicioiit (luyn by oiii|)iiior miil iJuwn : 

I'lii'tjapH t)ii: Wilftiiimi! riijii){ lljiit louiiil ii puUi 
'I'IiixukIi Uic null Ijiiai-l of llutli, wliuii, hU-M for 

Hill- utooil ill tuum uiiiiil till- ulimi colli ; 

'I'lii; HiiiiKi that ofttiiiiiiH hiith 
I liiiniiud iiiu^ii; caiKinieiitii o|ii:iiiiig on Ihii foam 
Of jyt'iilouii BcuB, In faery lundii forlorn. 

l''oi|./rii ! thi) very wonl in liko a hull, 

To toll iiic back from then U> my Hole self ! 
AilnMi ! till! I'micy cannot chcicl no witll 

All shii in faiiicil to do, deceiving elf. 
Adiwi ! lulicii I thy plaintive untlieni fadeu 

I' tlie near meudowB, over t)ie uliil ulieuni, 
Up the liillitiili: ; ami now 't in buried dceji 
In the next vallcygliuliw ; 

Wb« it a vijiion or a waking dream f 
Fled in that niuaic, — do I wake or ii\fi;\i f 


0, poun upon my soul nfjain 

'I'hat Huil, uneurthly utrain 
'I'hut heeiiiii from oilier worldn to 'jdiiin I 
'I'hUH falling, UiWuifi^ fn/in afar. 
An if dome nieliincholy Btar 
iliui mingled with her light her iiighii, 

And droppi;d tliem from tin; nklcK, 

No, never came from aught In low 

Thin melody of woe, 
Tliiil makcH my heart to overlhiw. 
Ax from a tlioii«aiid gunhing Hpriiigit 
I'nknowii before ; that with it liriiign 
'I'hin nanielens light— if light it be - 

That veilB the world I see. 

For nil I iir;e around me weam 

Tint hue of other spheres ; 
And Bomelhing blent of BmileH and tears 
Comes from the very air I breathe. 
0, nothing, sure, tlie stars beneatli, 
Can mould a siwlness like \j) this, — 

80 like angelic bliss ! 

80, at that dreamy hour of 'lay. 
When the last lingering ray 

Wl/jps on the highest cloud t'l play, — 

80 thought the gentle Uor-alie 

As on her m.'iiden revery 

first fell the strain of him who sti.le 
In music to her soul. 

washihgtow ai.ijtom. 


Opt in th« stilly night, 

KiB ulumhei's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears. 
Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love tlien spoken ; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimmed an<l gone. 
The rheerful hearts now broken. 
Thus in the stilly night, 

K,ie slumber's chain has Iwund me, 
8ad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends so linked together 
I 've seen around me fall, 

liike leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some han'|uet-hall descrtwl, 
Whose lights arc (led, 
Whose garlands dea«l, 
An.l all but he rieparted. 
Thus ill thr^ stilly night, 

y.n; slumber's chain has bound mn. 
Had Memory brings the light 
Of other days around mo. 



TiioHK evening bells ! those evening hells 
How many a tale their music t'dls 
Of youth, and home, and thai swet time 
When hist I heard their soothing chiim: '. 

Those joyous hours are passed away ; 
And many a heart that then was gay 
Within the tomb now darkly dwidls. 
And lieais no more those evening hells. 

And ivi 't will be when I am gone, — 
Th.'it tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
While other l)«rdfl shall walk these dells. 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells 



TllK sun is warm, the sky ia clear. 
The waves are dancing fast and Wght, 
Dine Isles and snowy mountains wear 
Tlie purplij iwon's transparent light ; 



roKm OK aoKHiW ano luiArn, 

'ri\t> iSl^v's \\>ivv itswlf U !n\lt Uki> vSk»I\|>hIo'», 
\Vitl> jji\Hv>\ rtinl |>v»nU> «>>« wwvls ShMWU i 

I !«>(> t\w WI>\<V( m>.\« ll\<> sIlvMV 

l.\k<> Hjilvl ili!is\>\\rtl ill M«i^!il»n\\\vw tln\>\M\ ; 

Alas ! I U«v<> «i>v Uo|v luxf Uts^\llv, 

'fhi' *,-«sv >« (uisUt.'UikVW l\>\>uvl, 
A>\>1 walktHl \v>lt» \«>\\«i\l _>i\>\vv \'>\»\v\(rtl. 
Ni\>' l\»»h>, «w \s>\v«M\ u>M' U>v<s >vm- l<>isH»v 
Oth<\wi \ Mv \\\\\\\\\ Ovi>*> s«n\«\uv< ; 
5<»\vU\«V}5 <>><\v >>v\s «>\\l »\»U UtV ndsisiiw ; 
"IV «v>> \\\M oy\\\ U*» l«H>« »Uv*l« iu tM»KtUi>f (Wivswvu'xv 

Wt MOW vlt«HV>U' >ts<>lf is \HiM 
K\»>H OS tUi> wilwls OUk) wauvw »«x> ! 

\ vvv>Ul \v>' vU>\\«v liKo * uu>l oluUI, 
A»vl \\«>i» i«\vt»\ (Ui< \itV vv|\\'«>v 
WUioU I li*V(> K\t\\<s *«>l \A't <H«s( Wv«\ 
'IMl vU\«iU \ik<< sliH'j* \Hvs''>' "'•^■♦l *^» >«<>> 
A<vvl \ >«is'>' •>'«'* >" ''«* «*vu\ aiv 
My oh<vk j;''*>^v »vUI, w\vl Ut\«>- ih«> s<n* 


IV»\V\ t\x tl»i« \vl\*vvxvi. *» th* Sim »!>vs >U»\v>v, 
A»vl (l\<> vl,\vlvsU«'s tuiitnli *H»I vlrtst »uti vlh» 

\VUi>»v »I«\NS, \iV.<> liUt^S» U<> l»<MU|ui%, 

Au.i •,' 


O, ii\ii)o wiw n vtwsiil \<f sl\vuj;lli mill Initli, 

IIpi' suits winv whito twt it ,vi>«»j; lim\li's ll(i»i><i, 
Sl>iv sHilmi Kvivj} siooo t\\»» ttiii l>mi mI" \\«ill\, 

llov IHHStot' \V«a I.OVC, «H\l l\<'l- IIIMHO Wtts ISnUHV 

Auil Uki> «U K'IomhI iti\il Ihvi>\iioi«»s tlitiv^, 

Sllli ft>>li'il ill vlislnUi'o lU\vl lliUlllt «W«y, - 
Wttll UMly- U l\VH\l\ll> >\|'s\n\\V_V wiiv^ij* 
Kltl> lltVI(<Hl, S\VAU'l(kt>, HvloWtl ll)l> Uv,V, 

»\>l'l'\i»,»; with l\o>' i> l»wi»\is l\\vtj;|it. 
All I Utul ){ttt IikixhI I>y y«>i^ nl' jviiii ; 

A l\'i>\|>li\>js )v»t«<> tv> \iw y\\mU\ I'Vh', 
Ami still I \v«t»>U IW ln>>- l«ok t»j{t\i» ; - 

\Y«tv'l\ ft\\\>i tUo <v«vliiwt \«v>minj; lijjUt 
'rill tU<> |v«lo siiXN j;(i<>vi> >i'<>i' iKo vlyin,i; My, 

'IV ».mv'l> (\w ,>;K>»m W Ucc i'<iuv»» wloio 
A>«»\>j; (III' isltuitls whioli >{«'«> iIik Iv»j'. 

UhI »I«' \>Mntvs H>>t yot. slio will >\<>vo>' >'>m«<< 
IV )<litiUlo» Hvy <\Viw i«iul uvv sniHt )«>>»> ; 

A«>1 >»> li««'l s>\>ws I>v\|>.>l<v4s and l\>i»l Hud tlH(«l\ 
As I woit s>\vl wait >»« (ho l>v\»wv»\»o s|ux»v, 

Ku»wi«>js that ^^^^^^^H\st »«vl tii\»o a«il stv\n» 
llnvvwtwkiHl aHvl sl\:»ttv>>xxl \«y K><\>u<s>«slv\\-k; 

MauK «\>>\v«hIs v>>v<>v Hov wastin^i; I'wim, 
A»vt Uo»~ sails a>v ^att^>^^^l awvl slaiH^l iu»l ilaik, 

Uwt thi> tW<> »H«H(vs H)\ au>\ tUi> tuW svwt viowiv. 

A>»1 t\\f »laylvj{U« l\xlU»\vsth<invj!l>t's tvlijvsts— 
Au^l still wilK tl»> sailvM-s, taiwinl »u\l lv>\>\n\, 

I wail vxn tl><> wl>an<^a auvl watvh llu- sUi|>s, 

A«vl still with a ^^ati^^H^v that is )n>t h»|x\ 
Kvvf v»iu »\\\\ <'>«i<ly it Umij; l>atl< Iw^Mv 

I sit »\« the «\ntj»h sh»\(vV twky »^^>^^v 
Ami \v»toh tv> siH> ir «\y *hi)> kvtutvs itt. 


A>\VK i« tl\(> >Uv\wt I lo>0 tv> vi>l<\ 

\Vitl> tl»<> siWt l^iishlvv sUmu' I\v n\y sivW ; 

\VI\.M» tho SVMWWS wflilV tW Svx«l o"w^*st. 

Auvl> si>-k ixf tlvt> )M\vs<>nt, \ oUtvj; tv> th«> iv»st ; 
WUon tU<< <*yx> is s»tll\)stsl with t\'^<vtt\U txxsis, 
Kv\\>» tlu> r>«ul \\s\vll<s'tivv«s \\t" tWw<-»- yiv<»«» , 
A«vl Al\a»U>ws >\t' thiiv,tfi that l>aw Uuvjt *i»«v tl«l 
KUl »>YW th«> h)>«ht. Ivk<> th<> j;h>vsts \Mf the vWil. — 
l^'Vsht \i!iiv\»ks v>«' j«U\)v that vaoishisl tv><x S\>>\t> ; 
IVaj -klivaws. that vlo\v«-t<sl <<iv uianhvHxrs «i>>\\» j 
Attaoh\H«\ts hy t!»to vw titls^)lvyHl >vt> ; 
VV\v>\v«»u\«>s vvt" (Nat-ly vlays Uxst >« m ; 
A<»>l uvy tvstivv U»vl, wh>w nva^Hk) »»*»«<' 


IV ' 

HOUUOIV AND A/jy/aiH/'/y. 

2'.'/.) 'r 


'Ctiir Imiiif lit iity iMIiIUihA ; t)i« iiuiiitlM of (/ly 

All l.)(« fnumiiiiis mill tUAWM iil (Jiat (nij/tM/oHK ti/<i/r 
Wli«(i U«! fwili/igs WW* yomii^ «//'! (.)/<: w<//l'l 

(yik<! t,(i<! f»<!i*)i Iwy/wm 'yf I^Mii iiiiMiiUin l/> view ; 
All, all now formkitii, (nrnntU-.n, (nn-^'iiii; '. 

A/I'l J, a \llllt; i:Xi\i: IHIIIlrllltilUiA 1)1 I II II II',, 

A)y liif(l) «!((« hImiiiUiiiijI, my ii;iiA «/;(* ii;»- 

Aw««/7 "Cttll f.l(at is H/i'li;)' lli': sun, - 
VVilJi Dial w<4;ii!*« of l««;t y/t)i/;J) ii/i »irniiiii;r 

limy m'Mi, 
1 (ly l/j U)<! i\t:tvtl1. nfiil fliilii 

Mar i/j i\ii: i^fMiX I \i,'/i: Uj (i/l«, 
Wit!) lie: »il<!/il I'/iJsli-Uy al///i<: t/y Hiy «i/l<;f 
VVIiKii itift wi|/l lurdioil (/f tl)i)i wiiaris/zH//; l)f<;, 
Willi its >i<«i«* of munissiAiiii, li'imifiiiiiii, aii/l 

'l'i»« (/r<(ii/l man's frown, mul tli/j Iwk; i/iao'a 

'I'll/! ni'/iriwyti hits')!, K-iiif t'"' aufffif'tr'e t<«r, 
An'i iii'AW:, mill iinMiinitnti, umi fAnf.ii'i'A, ao/l 

iJinjc/wi i(i<! l/< friii8iiij({ ad'l 'lack iiiAuiirinAy ; 
WtiKii my SDmnii ia foil, ai/'l iny tli>/iiglit« <trft 

Awl iny w/iil is »il/:k<: ifniitmnn'H xij/li,— 
O, tli/:H ).)i<:f<! in fi-JH-Aiiiii, mill j'/y, a/i') j/ii/l/:, 
Afar id tt«! •l/jWfrt al'/fi<! t/( »i*l/; ! 
'I'll';)'- i» r!«|;l.iir<: f/i y'aillt oo tlo; ';liaf()J;l(ij(irt/!'-yl, 
Ali/I t/; l«;ri)|i| av/ay with tli/i <'a((Ii;'s aju-i/l, 
Witt) t)i« lU-sttU-fmis/Ui fSn-.Wk Ui i/iy iiad'l, - 
'I'lx; '/nly law of tlift Mirtmtt fMni '. 

Afar i»<! <I«w;rt I lovft to ri<l/;, 

Willi liift «il(;nt hiitshiioy niow fiy my Mn, 

Away, a.way from tin; 'Iwftllinj^i <i( iinrii, 

l',y llii; wll'l <lw;f's fiaiiril, l/y tli<: (/iiffalo's fipiii ; 

liy vall/;ya iKinniM wficru thft oriW fiUyv, 

Wli<rr<! till! ({Till, til'; fpiwill'i, a«/l Ukj hmiJ-in-Mnt. 

Aw! tJie k'i'lii ari'I ftUn'l iinhiinteJ rwilin/; 
I5y Dili f)ki(t« of (fray f/;r'»!l o'eriimiK with wlW 

ylH<! ; 
Wliirm th/! i:li<fi\iitii1. iirowm^n al f««i/* in hi» wccl, 
An'l iUi:rhi:rAinrt!): i^uiiinU iiiiiv.hh-A in tin-. HikA, 
And Itift niighly riiSuiii'Mon wallows at will 
In till; f>;n wSii'.Tit t\ii: wil'l axti ix 'irinkin;^ litis 


Afar in thu <l/«»rrt ( l//V« ro »i/!*, 
Willi ili/j sil/rnt (Jiusli-lxiy al//n« t/y my tsiil/;, 
0'i;f tde l/rown karr'yv, wlntr* tin; l»l«atin({ 'rry 
Of III/; BidinfflKik'ii fawn Hfiumlx i<lalntiy';ly ; 
An'l till! tiniofOH»')iiaj(i^'» sliiill wli)?,llin({ n«ij{li 
I* liirar'l liy l)i« fountain at twilijjjit (jray ; 

W)ii;ri; till! ii«li)« wanUmly t/rtwflt (lit /nam-. 
Wild wil'l lioof lujiHriiijt til* 'l<:«<ilat<-, |/)«in ; 
Ami Id/-, ))<-*lf','/l/->l mUiih oiki tin; wmtf*: 
iifn-j'/lit liki! a doiwman wd// t(av<:l» in daAt<;, 
IliMiin away 1/; tl/<; li//;/ii; </f li/tr /'ml, 
Vliuiif, kIi/s anil d«r niaUj day*; vvnumi ld/;ii n«»t, 
Ka* )ii/l f/'im lli« (/itil««) f,luiiili:ii;i'it t'lKw 
ill till; jwtdliflw '(/;(/ld* of Idi! \Mi:iifA iintrifi. 

A fill ill tilt; 'll«/;rt ( )oV<; t/i /j/|/;. 

Wild Id'-. iiil/!«l IJiisd-lioy aloni! t;y my Mi;, 

Away, away, in td/j wil'l/rin'iws ya*l 

Vi'iii;ii; Id'! wliit/i man'i! f'M dalli n';Vir( J'tt«e'-'l, 

All') id': 'jniyifC'-/) < 'irniiiin. oi li<r'di)an 

(laid raf'-ly ''r'/ws"-/) wild din rovinff <lan, - 

A ii;{/)iiii '/f 'rnijiliii'^M!, dowlinj/ an'l 'Icar, 

Wlii/:l) man dald ninmiioinA from fmiiiiii' uiiii 

t-tir ; 
Wiiii'ii Id'! snak': an'l td« lizar'l inlialiil alon" 
Wild Id': Iwilixlil liat fcmi id': yuwiiiiiii >.u,u' 
Wd'-r'! nmm, nor li';rii, nor ednid tak'fl* fc/)., 
Hay: {niMinoiiit iiioriiK idal (/i'-*':/- tl": f'y/l ; 
An') III/: iiHU;i-iiif\oir for f'yl an'l '(rink, 
l« ill': |'il{{(ini t ■,M(ik ; 

A liffioll 'if 'Ic I' :, 

.'i"l /i('J'lin<{ l/r 

Wd/:r': w/l(fy /"'ol, noi it"i,i,Ui4ii, )/,i.«l, 

Nor Ir'-A, n'/r ':Iopi'), nor mi<ty /nonnl, 

A)'|K««r>i, t/i r';f»'«d tin: »/:diii(( ':y<! ; 

l/iil til': li«r«:n isiftd an') tin: imniiiiK nicy. 

Am) til': ('lank iioii'//iii, roiiii'l am) foiiwi, 

HfiiifMi, io\ii '/f livinj( iiij^dl '/I viHini, 

l\wi d'-i<:, wdil': id'! ni;{dtwin'l» /'inn') m« uijffi, 

Am) llii: etarB durn l/rit/dl in tti<: mi>)ni((lit leky. 

As ) «il ajiart dy tde linntrX iiUiiii;, 

),ik': KJijad at )('/r<;)''» ':ay';, al/in/:, 

"A utill >:nial) vnim" •■jiHn» tiinmi/fi tli»; wid) 

II/&.I; a tatd'rr 'y/nicili»i<{ diit fr'Afn) ';di)')/, 

W)ii':d daniiilK!* intU^numi, wratd, am) t'«r, 

HayiiiH, - Man in ')i»t«»t, init Oo*) i>, n/:af ! 

'/«//M*5 ('*)ll',(,fc 

MA.iifi'nv in Mii' , 

fim/.A'l Uoimri-ii oftiu; Worl/), from wdow: C'/wm 

'I'd/! i' am) ('ow':r i/f Kin{f«, 
llwwl till! )£/iyal Wo* my Hiilti;rinir »ift((* ; 

Am) t/!!</:h my t/injfiU!, tdat <;y<;r ')i/) '/inlini; 

It* fa/fiiltl** In Tmld't Ki^/ajidi/: J,in<!, 

To tra/;k td'j TnauKms of tdy f'/ias an') mi/i/-. 

N'at'ir"; ami law, i/y Idy Uivin* I,>'!/,'r<',« 
'Tdc '/nly )!/i"l of )Sij^it*//«» ll//ya)li/:; 
Wild tdi8 'lim lhMi':iii invftty/l im: : 






■\Vitii it tlio saciinl Sceptor, riujilo Uobo, 
Tho Holy Uuotiou, luul tho UoyhI tilolv: 
Y»t oiu I U'voUod with tho lifo olMoli. 

Tho fioiTost Furies, that do ilivily troiul 
Upon my Oi'iof, my Gray Pis-crowiuVl Head, 
Aro thoao that owo my Bounty for thoir Uitvul. 

Thoy raisp a War, and Christon it TVii' (^iiii,«, 
Whilst sacrilegious hands havo host applause, 
riuudor and llunlor ait> tho Kinjjvloni's l^aws ; 

Tyranny Iwii-s tho Title of 'J'tiMition, 
l!ovonj?> and Kohbory ai\< J{i-f\>riniilwn, 
l^ppit'ssion gains tlio nanio of Ai/Mioi/rd/iim. 

My loyal Siibjoi'ts, who in this Imd season 
Attend mo (by tho law of Ood and Uoason), 
They dari> imiioaoh and punish for High Tivason. 

Next at tlio Clergy do their Kurios fivwu ; 

Pious Kpisooiwey must go down ; 

They will dostiMy tdie Ci\)sier and tho Civwn. 

t'hun'hmen arp chained and Schisniatieks are 

Mochanicks pivaoh, and Holy Fathei's bleed. 
The Civwn is crucified with tlio Civod. 

Tho fhuivh of F.ngland doth all factions foster. 
The pulpit is usurped by each impi.>ster, 
Extfmivre excludes the rater Xostrr. 

Tho I'lYffiiitfr and rmif/itnJt-nt siMxi 
Springswithbi-oiid blades ; to make Keligiou bleed, 
Heixid and Pontius Pilate ai^o agiiHHl. 

Tho corner-stone 's misplaced by eveiy Pavier : 
With such a blotxly method and In^liavionr 
Their Ancostoi-s did crucify our Sjiviour. 

JMy Koyal Consort, fivm whose fruitful Womb 
So many Princes logsUly have oome. 
Is foired in Pilgrimage to seek a Tomb. 

Oivat l>ritain's lioir is foTOKi into France, 
Whilst on his father's head his foes advmice : 
Poor child ! Ho weeps at his Inhoribuice- 

With my own Power my Miyesty thoy wound 
lu tho King's nametho Kinghimself'suncrowne^l: 
So dotli the Dust destivy the l")iau\oud. 

With Propositions daily they onchiuit 
My People's oai-s, such as do reason daunt. 
And the Almighty will not lot me grant. 

They prvMuiso to er»ct my Kojiil Stem. 
To n\iikc Mo givat, t' ad\i»nce my Diadem, 
If 1 will tii-st fall down, and worship thom. 

Uut, for refusiU, they devour my Throiu's, 
IMstivss my Children, and destroy my bones ; 
1 tear they '11 fcrcc im- to make broad of stones. 

My Lite they pri/.e al such a slender rirto 
That in my absence they draw liills of hate, 
'I'o prove the King a Traytor to the State. 

Felons obtiiin more priviledge than 1 : 
They are allowed to answer ere thoy die ; 
'Tis deatli for me to nsk tho reason Why. 

Uut, Sacred Siiviour. with thy wonls 1 woo 

Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to 

Such as thou know'st ilo not know what thoy ilo. 

For since they fixun their are so disjointed 
As to contonni those Kdicls he appointed. 
How can they prize the Power of his .\uoiuted t 

.Vuguu'Tit my Patience, nullitie my Hate, 
Pit'sorve my l.ssue, aaid inspire my Mate : 
Yet, though We perish, bless this Clunvh and 



1 CANNOT, cannot say. 
Out of my bruised and bnaking heart. 
Storm-driven along a thorn-sot way. 

While blooti-drejvs stnrt 
From every pore, as 1 drag on, 

" Thy will, God, bo done ! " 

I thought, but yestei\iay. 
My will was one with God's deai- will ; 
.•\ud that it would be sweet to say. 

Whatever ill 
My happy sl:itc should smito upon, 

" I'hy will, my God, bo done ! " 

Hut I was weak and wrong, 
Hotli weak of sonl and wrong of heart ; 
.Viul Pride alone in me was strong. 

With cunning art 
To cheat nu' in the golden sun. 

To say " God's will be done ! " 

O shadow dresu" and cold. 
That t'right.s mc out of foolish pride ; 

llootl, that through my basom rolled 

Its billowy tide ; 

1 said, till ye your ]iower made known, 

"Go<Vs will, not mine, bo done ! 

durio); his captivity .tt Carisbrook castle. Anno CVmh. 








Now, faint niid Kore adaiil, 
Under my croHn, heavy ami nule, 
My yiolH in the asijeH laid, 

Like aHliex «tiv;wed, 
Tin; holy v/imh my jiali; lips hhuii, 

"0 God, thy will he done I" 

Pity my woes, God, 
And toueh my will with thy warm breath ; 
I'lit in my tn-mhlinf; hand thy rod, 

'I'liat iiuieketiH death ; 
'i'liat my dead faith may feel thy sun, 

And Hiiy, "Tliy will he ilone ! " 



\,u\v. not, love not, ye hajilens sonH of eluy ! 
Hope's gayent wreaths are maxle of eartlily flow- 
ers, — 
Things that are made to fade and fall away 
Ere tliey have hlossomed foi' a few short hours. 
Ijove not ! 

Love not ! the thirig ye love may change ; 
'J'he losy lij) may eease to smile on you. 
Tin; kindly-heaming eye grow coM and strange, 
'J'hi! heart still warmly beat, yet not lj<; true. 
Love not ! 

Love not ! the thing you love may die, - 
May jjeiish from the gay and glaiJsome earth ; 
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky. 
Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its Vjirth. 

LoVr; not ! 

Jjove not ! warning vainry said 
In pn M ril hours !is in yeais gone by ! 
l.oM- lliii;/-: a halo round the dear ones' head, 
Faidlli-;'!, immortal, till they change or die. 
Love not ! 



A i.rrii.K onward lend thy guiding hand 
'I'o these dark steps, a little fartlier on ; 
For yoniler bank hath choice of sun or shade : 
There I am wont to sit, when any chance 
Relieves me from my task of servile U)W, 
Daily in the common prison else enjoined me, 
Where I a pris')ner, chained, scarce freely draw 
The air imprisoned also, close and damp. 
Unwholesome draught ; hut here I feel amends. 
The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and 

With day-spring bom : here leave inc to respire. 

This day a solemn feast the pwple hold 

To iJagon, their sea-idol, and forbid 

Laborious works : unwillingly this rest 

'i'heir superstition yields me ; henee with leave 

lietiring from the pojjular noise, I seek 

This un)rei|uente<l place U> find sf>nie ease, — 

i'jtse to the Viody some, none t« the mind 

l''rorn restless thoughts, that, like a ileailly swann 

Of hornets armed, no sooner found alone, 

iJut rush upon me thronging, and jiresent 

Times p.'ist, what once I w;is, and what am now. 

O, wherefore was my birth from lleavin foretold 

Twice by an angel, who at last in sight 

Of both my parents all in (lames asieuded 

From od'the altar, where an olleriug burned. 

As in a fiery column, chari'iting 

His gwllike prewMice, and from some great iu;t 

Or benefit revealed to .Miraham's race? 

Whj' was my breeding ordered and prescribed 

As of a ]>erson separate to (Jrjd, 

Designc'l for great ex|iloits, if I must die 

Ijetrayed, captivcd, ami both my eyes put out. 

Made of my enemies the scoiti and gaze ; 

To grind in brazen fetters uinler task 

With this Ileaveii-giftcd strength ? O glorioui 

Put to the labor of a Ixjast, rietiased 
Lower than Isindslavc ! Promise was that I 
Should Israel from I'hilistian yoke deliver ; 
Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him 
P^yeless in fJaza, at the mill with slaves. 
Himself in Is^nds umler I'hilistian yoke ! 

loss of sight, of thee 1 most comjilain I 
liliii'l among enemies, O, worse than chains, 
iJiingeon, or beggary, or decrejiit age I 
Light, the prime work of flod, to me is extinct. 
And all her various obj<;cts of delight 
Annulled, which might in iKirt my grief have cased. 
Inferior to the vilest now Ixicome 
Of man or wonn ; tlie vilest here excel me ; 
They creep, yet see ; I, (lark in light, ex[i08<;<l 
To ilaily fraud, contempt, abuse, anrl wrong. 
Within doors or without, still as a fool. 
In [wiwei' of others, never in my own ; 
Sirarcc half 1 seem to live, flciid more than half. 
dark, dark, ikrk, amid the bkze of noon. 
Irrecoverably dark, tfHal eclipse. 
Without all hoiie of day ! 


KVI'.'.S I.A.MK.ST. 

UNKXi'Kcri'.l) stroke, worse than of death I 

Must I thus leave thee. Paradise ? thus leave 

Thei-, native soil ! these happy walks and shades. 

Fit haunt of gods ; where I had hope to speml. 







Quiet, though sad, tho rusiiite of that day 
Tlmt must be mortal to us botli ? O llowers. 
That never will in other climate grow, 
My early visitation, and my last 
At even, which I bred up with tender hand 
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! 
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount ? 
Thee, lastly, imptial bower ! by me adorned 
Witli wluit to sight or smell was sweet, from tliee 
llow shall I part, and whither wander down 
Into a lower world, to this obscure 
And wild ? how sliall we breathe in other air 
Less pure, accustomed to immortiil fruits ? 



Gently hast tlu)U told 
Thy message, which might else in telling wound, 
And in performing end us. Wliat liesides 
Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair 
Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring ; 
Departure from this happy place, our sweet 
Recess, and only consolation left. 
Familiar to our eyes, all places else 
Inhospitable appear and desolate. 
Nor knowing us nor known ; and if by prayer 
Incessant I could hope to change the will 
Of Him who all things can, I would not cease 
To weary him with my assiduous cries. 
But ju-ayer against his abs.iliitr decree 
No more avails than lncatb :ii;.iin^l the wind. 
Blown stifling back on him lli:il I'lcalhes it forth; 
Tliereforo to his great bidiliug 1 submit. 
This nu)st afllicts me, that, de])arting hence, 
As from his face I shall be hid, deprived 
His blessM countenance, here I could freipient 
With worship place by place where ho vouclisafed 
Presence divine, and to my sons relate, 
On this mount he appeared ; under this tree 
Stooil visilile ; among tliese pines his voice 
I hoard ; here with him at this fountain talked ; 
So many grateful altars 1 wouhl roar 
Of grassy turf, and pile up every stone 
Of luster from the brook, in memory 
Or monument to ages, and thereon 
Olfcr sweet- smelling gums, and fruits, nndtlowers. 
In yonilcr nether worhl wliero shall 1 seek 
His liriglit appearances, or footstep trace ? 
For tliough I rted him angry, yet, recallcil 
To life prolonged and promised race, I now 
(Madly behold though but his ntmost skirts 
Of gliiry, and far otf Ins steps adore. 

Henceforth 1 learn that to obey is best. 
And love with fear tlie only Ood, to walk 
As in liis presence, ever to observe 

His providence, and on him sole depend, 
Merciful over all his works, with good 
Still overcoming evil, and by small 
Accomplishing great things, by things deemed 

Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise 
By simply meek ; that suffering for truth's sake 
Is fortitude to highest victory, 
And to the faitliful death the gate of life : 
Taught this by his example, whom 1 now 
Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest. 


With sorrow and heart's distress 
Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on ; 
In nie is no ilelay ; with thee to go. 
Is to stay here ; without thee here to stay. 
Is to go hence unwilling ; thou to me 
Art all things under heaven, all places thou. 
Who for my wilful crime art banished hence. 
This further consolation, yet secui-e, 
1 carry hence ; though all by me is lost. 
Such favor I imworthy am vouchsafed. 
By me the promised Seed shall all restore. 


I N either hand the hastening angel caught 
Our lingering parents, and to tlie eastern gate 
I,ed them direct, and down the cliff as fast 
To the sulijc(^tod plain ; then disappeared. 
They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld 
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, 
Waved over by that flaming brand ; the gate 
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. 
Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them 

soon ; 
The world was all before them, wdiere to choose 
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. 
They, hand in hand, witli wandering steps and 

Through Eden took their solitary way. 



Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man : to-day he puts furtli 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
Aw\ bears his blushing honors thick upon him : 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; 
And — when lie thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening — nips his ront. 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured. 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders. 
Tins many summers in a sea of glory ; 

But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 






At Ifiigth l)roke under me ; and now lias left me, 
Weaiy and old with service, to tlie mercy 
< M' a rude stream, that must forever liide me. 
Vain pomi) and glory of this world, 1 hate ye : 
I Icel my heart new opened. 0, how wi-etched 
Is I hat poor man that hangs on princes' favors ! 
There is, betwi.xt that smile we would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruiu. 
More pangs and fears than wars or women have : 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. 



CiiciMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries ; l)Ut thou hast forced me, 
Out of thy honest truth, to play tlie woman. 
Let 's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Crom- 
well ; 
Ami — when 1 am forgotten, as I shall be. 
Anil sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention 
( )f mc more iimst lie heard of — say, I taught thee. 
Say, Wolsey — that once trod the ways of glory. 
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor — 
Found thee a way, out of his wieck, to rise in ; 
A .s\n-e and .safe one, though thy master missed it. 
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. 
Cromwell, 1 charge thee, fling away amljition ; 
By that sin fell tlie angels ; how can nuui, then. 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't '. 
Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate 

thee : 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace. 
To .silence envious tongues., and fear not : 
Let .-dl the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 
Thy (;od'.s, and trutli's ; then if thou fall'st, 

Cromwell ! 
Thou fall'.st a blessed martyr. 
S{'rvc the king ; and — pr'ythee, lead mc in : 
TlicTc take an inventory of all I have, 
To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, 
And my integrity to heaven, is all 
1 dare now call mine own. Cromwell, Cromwell ! 
Ibid 1 but served my God with half the zeal 
1 served my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies ! 



She stood alone amidst the April fields, — 

Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare. 
"The spring is late," she said, "the faithless 
That should have come to make the meadows 


' ' Their sweet South left too soon, among the trees 
The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro ; 

For them no green boughs wait, — their memories 
Of last year's April had deceived them so." 

She watched tlie homeless birds, the slow, sad 

The barren fields, and shivering, naked tn-es. 
" Thus God has dealt with me, his child, "she said; 

' ' I wait my spring-time, and am cold like these. 

"To them will come the fullness of their time ; 
Their spring, though late, will make the mead- 
ows fair ; 
Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed ? 
I am his own, — doth not my Father care ?" 
Louise CHANDi-t-k moulton. 


O WORLD ! O Life ! O Time ! 
On whose last steps I climb. 

Trembling at that where 1 had stood before ; 
When will return the glory of your prime ? 
No moi'e, — O neverntoi'c ! 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight : spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 
No moie, — O nevemiore ! 



Si'iiiNO it is cheery, 

Winter is dreary. 
Green leaves hang, but the brown nmst fly ; 

When he 's forsaken. 

Withered and .shaken, 
What can an old man do but die ? 

Love will not clip him, 

Maids will not li]) him, 
Maud and Marian pass him by ; 

Youth it is sunny. 

Age has no honey, — 
What can an old man do but die ? 

.June it was jolly, 

for its folly ! 
A dancing leg and a laughing eye ! 

Youth may be silly, 

Wisdom is chilly, — 
Wliat can an old man do but die ? 





b'riomls th<>Y mv »o«nty, 

Hi>jjjju>!> (n't' i>lfnty, 
ir lio lins followoi's, I know wliy i 

U»lil ".I ill his oUitvhos 

(,Ui>y>i>,»C liii" i'r«lvlit>s ! )^ 
\Yl\i<t i>im nM oM nmii do buliUnl 



WilKN sliiill \v<i nil tuwt »j;uii> ! 
Wlion sli!»U wo all mcot iijisiiiv f 
0(X shull jtlowini; I>»|h> <>\|>>i~<s 
Oft sUall wouiiHl U>v<' (viiiA 
Ort sUnll >l«»tli Hwil sonvw ivijjii, 
K>v wo M shivll moot )»jp\iu. 

'riu>ii,i;li hi ilistiiut liiuils wo si^lt, 
r«>vlioii K>iu'<itl> ti hiwtilo sky ; 
'riimi^h tho vlw)! IvtwtH'it us mils, 
bVio>ulsU>|> shall imito our souls. 
Still in Kanoy's vioh >Uunaiu 
Oft shall wo all uuvl it^iiu. 

Whou tho (Iftsuus ofUlo aiv llo«l. 
Whou its wasloil latu^s aiv ilwul ; 
W'hou in I'ohl ohliviou's sliaihs 
l><>aulY. innvov, aiul I'aiuo aiv laid i 
Wlioiv iunuoital siviiits ivi^nu, 
Tlunv shall wo all uuvt a^uu. 



1 SAW liiui oiiiv ly-l'vMV, 
As ho jv>sstHl by tho (low ; 
Auil n^ip\i« 


As ho tot tot's o'ov tho i;iv>ui\vl 
AVith his oaito. 

Thoy sj>y that in his juimo, 
Kiv tho n^■«uiuJ^kl\i^o of thno 

Out h\u> >lowu. 
Not a l^ttor uiau was fouuil 
Uy tho ovior ou his ivutul 

Thivu^h tho town, 

\>\it now ho walks tho sti>?ots, 
.\ud ho looks at all ho mo«<ls 

So t'oi'lon\ ; 
.\u>l ho shakos his iVvWo hoavl. 
That it stw\is as if ho said. 
"Thoy a>v j!\>iio." 

Tho tnossy tnacMos ivst 

On tho lins that ho has jhvsspvI 

lu thoii' klooni ; 
And tho nanuw ho lovwl to hww 
llavo Ih>ou oavvod I'oi' many a y<>ar 

t>n tho tonili. 

My (iinndmaumia has said — 
1\hu' old lady I .sho is dwid 

l.onjj a>^> — 
That ho had a Kontnn noso, 
,\nd his ol»H>k was liko a i\>a« 

In tho snow. 

Hut now his mvso is thin, 
And it iiwts \HH>u his ohin 

l.iko a stall' ; 
Ai\d a oi\H>k is in his Ivaok, 
And a luolauoholy o^iok 

lu his lati^h. 

1 know it is a siu 
Kor \no to sit and );i'iu 

At hiu> hoiv, 
liut tho old thivo-oornoivd hat. 
And tho hl-otH'ho-s -and all that, 

.\|V so ((UlH't' ! 

And if 1 should livo to l>o 
Tho last loaf U(x>n tho tivo 

In tho si>rinjr, 
l.ol thon\ .suiilo, as 1 do now. 
At tho ohi I'oi'sakon Kuijjh 

Whoiv I oliiijj. 

OllMlK WllNOiai. IICU.MVS 

■niK Al'»M;OAOtl Ob' AlJK, 

KKIWI •' lAl-BS l>l' TItK lUl.l,," 

Six ywtfs had j>assotl, and tovty oit< tho six, 
Whou Tinu> Ih\sp>» to j>lay his usual trioks : 
Tho hvks luuv oonu-ly in a virj;iu's sij;ht. 
Locks of i>ui\> htvwu, disjdaywl tho onoivsxohinj; 

whito ; 
Tho hUnvl, ouoo I'orvid, now to wol K^jpxu, 
Atul I'into's stivn^ij (vit'ssuix" to suKluo tho luau. 
I ivdo or walkod as I was wont K't'oiv, 
liut now tho lH>undinjj spirit was \io uuuv ; 
A luvHloKito ivut> would now iny Knly h<>at, 
A walk of nnxlorato loujtth distftvss tuy tW>t, 
I showisl n\y stmu^swr j^\>>st tluvw hills sul>linio, 
\5«t siiid. "Tho viow is iH>or, wo «o<>l not oHuiK" 
At a iViond's \na\ision 1 K'jpiu to dnvul 
Tho ivUl uistt (vnlor and tho jray glaAnl KhI ; 
.\t hoiuo I folt a tnoiv d<vid<Hl tasto. 
And must havo all thiujts iu luy onlor |\h»iHHl, 
1 o«>stHl to hunt ; my hoi'siw |>h>as«l nu> Uvss, — 
My diunor tnoiv ; I loivrnod to ^>lt>y at ohoss, 
^l t>vk my dv>jj and jtun, hut ,<«»• tho lu'Uto 



Wax <li»»jyj>oiiiM tliaf, 1 'll"l unl »\i<M. 

My iiKirniuK walks I ivm (>;ul<) Ixsir Uj I'^j, 

A i/'l MifflWJ'J tlii!!(li</w<rrthat ({ay<! i/k; not t/< •■Motmt. 

Ill (;w;t, I felt a huntniit «ti»»liii({ on ; 

'I'Ikj a/;tiy<; ano, th<! aj^il"! )i:i()<l, wi;r<! ({one ; 

Hmal) iliiily iu:tUili» lulu ha);ils K'';Vi 

Ai)il ;i'.-w <li«llki; 1/1 (iiriiix and liwliioi)* ixm. 

I Iovim) Hiy triM!* in iminr Ui i|i»|K/W! ; 

1 iiiiiiitxiiwl \ii:!itMi:>i, Itxiki-A li'jw !il/x;kj! ar'/w: ; 

7'oW til/: (sajijft Btory oil, — in »))';it, Uijian t// j/r'^;. 


IJy tin; v/aysi/l'!, on a iiimiisy sUitio, 
Kat a liwiry i/ilgrini, /sadly nmtiing ; 

Oft I iitiirh-A )iiii> (sitting t)i(;r<; al</n<!, 

All tlw; lai)'l,v:a|)'!, lik/; a I<a({<;, [mriixinii ; 
yifir, unknown, 

J{y tli« wayxi/lf, on a tiiittmy hUiW!, 

I'li/.kl'!/] kiK^jaii'l stiW!, and \iriitulhi\iiiiii'-A luit ; 

',oat ax «jw;i*nl a» tli« form 't wa» folding ; 
Kilv<;r l/utt/^rus, nw.ui;, mid •■Aiut\i>-A i;iavat ; 

Oak<;n istalf liiss ('(j/jI/Ib hand uplioMing ; 
'I'txjr'! III! xat ! 
JJij'jkl's'l km* and (slu/c, and lir<wM;(i hi niiyl lial. 

Vx-MUiiA it ]/iti(ul he xhonld xit th';r';, 
No on<; (synij/athi/ing, no oni; li<x-yling, 

None Uj Iovi; liiin for liiji thin t^'iy hair, 
And til/: furrowx all m niMUsly [ihsxling 
Ag"; and <«ir<; ; 

Hfj;iii>A it pitiful 111; (should (sit tlj/;r<;. 

It Willi »umni<;r, and wn W",-nt Vi vhinA, 
l;ap|i<;r 'iijuntry I;i/1» and litth; niai/l<!n>s ; 

Taught tin: niott/; of tlie " Duiuv-.'k HUhA," — 

Itjs giavi! iw\K)rt (Still my fanfjy laihuos, — 

"ll<;r<;'» a fo*^! !" 

It W(os timiiwur, and w<; w';nt tr; wiho*)!. 

When th<s «trang';r <i«<;rne<l t'l mark our play, 
Bonn; of uis were joyom, S'lnie Jsa/l-lieart/;'!, 

I remenil«<r well, t^^ well, that <hiy ! 
OtWitimefi the t/^ars iinhi'M<;n HtHtUA, 
Would not (Stay 

When the (stranger aiMiiitA U> mark our pUy, 

f)ne tsweift (spirit hroke the (silent <ii><;ll, 
0, to rne her name wa» alwayis H'«iven ! 

Bhe Vr(S';nght him all hi« grief t'l tell, 
rl wa» then thirt/^n, an4 (sli/s eUven,) 
Iisalcil ■ 

One Kweet (sjiirit hroke tins siknt lijiell, 

"Angel," isaW Ik; (sa/lly, " I arn old ; 
Earthly Iwpe no longer I' <••■ ■< ir.'/rrov/ ■ 

Yet, why I (sit here thou (shalt lie l/ihl." 
'i'hen hi(s eye lietray<!<l a |K:arl of w/rrow, 
iJown it rolle'l ! 
"Angel," (sal/l he isa/Jly, " I am ohL 

" I liave UitU-.nA Iwsre to I'lok own: iiuitk 
Oil the phsi.'sanl ss'ajnx where I deligliUjil 

In the 'arelessis, Iwippy days of yore, 
Kre tin; ganhm of my li/;art wax hlighl/!/! 
To tlw; ez/re ; 

1 have t/;tt<!re'l lx;re Uj hx<k on<» moie. 

" All the pieture now tfi m/s how d/sir ! 

KVn thhs gray old r'xrk where I am ttimttA, 
Id a jewel worth my journey here ; 

Ah tliat (sij/:h a (s/i/ine niusst In: •■.iiui\>\>:UA 
1 With a t/sir ! 

All tlw: pi/:ture now t/j rn<; how d'sir ! 

"Old (st/;ne »<:lir)Ol-hoiUie! — it i)i (still tlw; (sanw:; 

' There '» the very (st/;p I so oft tinmuUA j 

Tlj<:re '(4 the window ermking in its frame. 

And tlu! U'jU:\ii:f, that I eut and t/niiiUA 

Vi)i the game. 

Old (stf/ne (s'lho'il -hou»:, it i>s (still the mii:' , 

"In the e»/ttage yoii<lt;r I was )/;rn ; 

l/ong my liapj/y home, that hunihle dwelling; 
There the field* of elover, wli/at, and w/m ; 

There the (spring with limpi'l n/y.-fcur iswi-lling ; 
Ah, tiitUirii ', 
In t